THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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POEMS    FOR   THE    MILLION. 


WRITTEN  FOR  AND  PUBLISHED  FROM  TIME  TO  TIME  IN  THE  COLUMNS  OF 
STREET  &  SMITH'S  "  NEW-YORK  WEEKLY." 


NEW-YORK : 

PUBLISHED  FOR  THE  AUTHOR  BY  THE  AMERICAN  NEWS 
COMPANY. 

1871. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

FRANCIS  S.   SMITH, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


PS 


TO  THB  PATRONS  OF 

STREET  &  SMITH'S   NEW-YORK   WEEKLY, 

WHOSE  KIND  APPRECIATION  HAS  ENCOURAGED  ME  TO  HOPE  THAT  MY 

EFFORTS  IN  THE  FIELD  OF  POESY  MIGHT  BE  RECEIVED  BY  THB 

GENERAL  PUBLIC  WITH  SOME  LITTLE  FAVOR, 

THIS  VOLUME  OF 

"POEMS  FOR  THE  MILLION" 

IS  RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED  BY  THEIR  HUMBLE  SERVANT, 

THE   AUTHOR. 


r 


CONTENTS. 


To  my  Daughter,  on  her  fifteenth  Birthday 3 

"  Whatever  is,  is  right  " 7 

The  two  Sleepers 12 

The  chief  Mourner 15 

The  Drunkard's  Dream 19 

Heaven 26 

The  Irish  Frenchman 29 

Faith 34 

The  Tinker's  Mistake 38 

To  a  Skull  in  our  Sanctum 44 

The  Human  Heart 48 

Creep  close  to  my  Heart,  O  my  Darling ! 50 

God  bless  our  Home 52 

A"Capital"   Theme 54 

The  Outcast 57 

Beau'aful  Bessie 62 

Tribute  to  Woman 65 

"I  don't  care!" 68 

The  honest  working  Girl 71 


vi  Contents. 

When  Friends  prove  false 74 

If  you  can't  praise  your  Neighbor,  don't  name  him  nt  all..  76 

Perhaps  so,  but  I  doubt  it 78 

Should  Fortune  frown 81 

The  Cuban  Volunteer's  Farewell 84 

Send  the  little  Ones  happy  to  Bed 87 

A  Christmas  Carol 89 

Kiss  me  good-night,  Darling 91 

A  Word  in  Anger  spoken 93 

"I  can't!"  and  "  I'll  try  " 96 

Lines 99 

Come  back  to  me 101 

A  Plea  for  Cuba 103 

Be  humble 105 

A  Child's  Song  of  Praise 107 

A  Wanderer's  Prayer no 

The  Poor  Man's  Song 112 

Plain  Talk 114 

Take  it  easy! 116 

The  Bouquet-Girl 118 

Friendless  Nelly 120 

Crazy  Estelle 123 

Heart-Hunger 125 

Twilight  Musings 127 

You'll  weep  when  I  am  dead 130 

The  Bible...  »«- 


Contents.  vii 

The  Power  of  Steam 134 

The  Wail  of  the  Betrayed 137 

The  CTfference 139 

He  did  not  read  the  News 142 

Birds  were  not  made  in  vain .  148 

The  Kernel  and  the  Nut 152 

Have  Charity 155 

Starvation 157 

The  Hero  Sailor 159 

Peace,  be  still ! 163 

World-weary 165 

The  Beggar-Girl's  Complaint 167 

Elsie's  Death 171 

The  Old  Knickerbocker's  Song 1 74 

The  Fireman's  Death 177 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  a  young  Lady  who  died  only  four 

Weeks  after  Marriage 179 

Religion 181 

Rat,  the  Newsboy 185 

What  are  the  sad  Waves  saying  ? 191 

To  the  Baby 194 

Life  and  Death 196 

Spoil  the  Rod  and  spare  the  Child 199 

Be  kind  to  your  Mother 201 

Why  art  thou  cold  ? 204 

To  xny  Sister  in  California. ....... .,,,,.,,.,., 206 


viii  Contents. 


Carrier's  Address  ....................................  ^10 

Alone  among  the  Shadows  .........................  _  -  22Z 

To  Hate  ............................................  224 

Here's  a  Health  to  those  who  love  us  ..................  226 

He's  ten  Years  old  to-day  .............................  228 

All  born  in  October  ..................................  230 

Hard  Luck  ..........................................  232 

The  Willow  .........................................  237 

Meagher's  Escape  ....................................  240 

Shall  we  kno'w  those  who  love  us  ?  .....................  243 

The  Felon's  last  Night  ................................  245 

What   i<  Life  ?  .......................................  250 

The  Lass  of  Clover  Lane  .............................  252 

The  Horse  ..........................................  255 

Come  to  me,  Darling  .................................  258 

The  Drunkard  .......................................  260 

A  Christmas  Story  ...................................  263 


POEMS. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER,  ON  HER  FIFTEENTH 
BIRTHDAY. 

'Tis  fifteen   years   ago   to-day 

Since   Heaven   sent   to   me 
A   winsome,   blue-eyed   baby-girl, 

As  sweet   as   she   could   be. 
And   when   I   took  her  in  my  arms, 

Her  cherub   face   to   view, 
I   felt   a   strange,   ecstatic    joy 

That  thrilled   me   through   and   through. 

I   watched  my   darling   as   she   grev/, 
So   artless,   pure,   and  mild, 


To  My  Daughter. 

And   sometimes   sighed   to   think   that  she 

Could  not   remain   a   child. 
But  now  that  fifteen   sunny   years 

Have  fled   since   she   was   born, 
She  seems   as   much   a  babe   to   me 

As  on   her  natal   morn. 

And  thus   I   think   'twill  ever  be 

As  on   the  seasons   roll — 
The  babe  will   still  remain   a  babe 
While   tarries   here  my   soul 
Yet,   should  she  live,   the   time  must  come 

When  she  will  surely   see 
A  woman   in   her  looking-glass, 

Whate'er  my   thoughts  may  be. 

And   when   that   time   does   come,    I   know 

Her  mirror  wilt  reveal 
The   face   of   one  whose   character 

Is  bright  as  polished  steel. 


To   My   Daughter, 

She'll  be   as   full   of   love   and   faith, 

And  pure   as  she   is   now, 
And  virtue's   self   will  sit   enthroned 

Upon   my  darling's  brow. 

'Tis   true  she'll  find  life's  pathway  strewn 

With   thorns   as   well   as   flowers, 
And  she,   when   sorely  pierced,   may   sigh 

For  childhood's  happy  hours. 
But  whether  she  be  filled  with  joy, 

Or  'neath    the   chastening  rod, 
She'll  have  the  same  dislike  for  wrong, 

The   same   sweet  trust  in   God. 

My  darling,    O   my   darling ! 

As  time  speeds  on  his  way, 
You'll  find  another  love  than  mine, 

To  comfort  you  some  day — 
A  deep  and  thrilling  sentiment 

Which   you   will   think   divine — 


To   My    Daughter. 

A  love   that   may  be   more   intense, 
But  not   more   true   than   mine. 

'Tis  right    that   you  should   make   new   friends, 

As  through   the   world   you   glide — 
I   can   not   hope   to   keep   you,   love, 

Forever  at  my   side 
'Tis  right   that  you   should   form   new  ties — 

Tis   nature's   great  behest — 
Nor  would   I   clip   thy   wings,   sweet   dove, 

To  keep  thee  in  my  nest. 

But   this   I   know — whate'er  your  lot — 

Wherever  you  may  rove — 
You'll   still   possess,  in   all   its   depth, 

A   father's   holy   love. 
Whether  beneath   the  parent   wing, 

Or  on  life's   troubled   sea, 
God   bless   my   bonny,   blue-eyed   girl, 

Wherever  she   may   be! 


"WHATEVER     IS,    IS    RIGHT." 

DISTURBED   in   mind,   and  racked  by  pain, 

In   solitude   I   sit, 
A   victim   to   the   sombre   thoughts 

That   through   my   fancy   flit ; 
I'm   thinking   of    the   thousand   ills 

That   human   pleasures   blight ; 
Yet  through  my  musing  runs   this   truth, 

"Whatever  is,   is   right." 

I  see  the   honest   toiler   steeped 

In  poverty  and   woe, 
While  past   him   struts   the    guilty   wretch, 

Whose   coffers   overflow. 
I    see   beneath   religion   cloaked 

Foul   passions  black   as   night; 


Whatever  is,    is   Right. 

Yet   in   my   heart   I   feel   the   truth, 
"Whatever  is,   is   right." 

I've  seen   the   trembling  culprit 

A    justice   stand   before, 
And   heard    the   doom   which  followed 

An   infringement   of    the  law; 
I   knew  the  stern-browed   magistrate 

Was   vile   in  heaven's   sight ; 
And  yet   I   whispered   to  myself, 

"  Whatever  is,   is  right." 

The   Great,   All-wise,   Omnipotent, 

Who  sends  the  gentle  dew 
To   bless   and   fructify   the  earth, 

Sends  hail   and   tempest   too. 
Behind   the   lowering,   angry   clouds 

The   sun   is  shining  bright, 
And   we   must  take   them   in   their   turn — 

"Whatever  is,   is   right." 


Whatever  is,    is   Right. 

I  would  not  be   misunderstood — • 

I   take  no   skeptic  view, 
I   feel   that   I'm   responsible 

For  all   which   I    may    do. 
But   He   who  fashioned   me   in   love, 

Will    judge  me  not  in   spite, 
But  pity   while  he  punishes — 

"Whatever  is,   is   right." 

Whan  passions   slumbering  in  my  soul, 

By  fate   to   flame   are  fanned, 
He  knows   what  my  temptation  is, 

How  much   I   can   withstand. 
And  if   I   fall   while   struggling, 

Or  conquer  in   the  fight, 
He'll   deal   with   me   as   I   deserve — 

"Whatever   is,   is   right." 

The   world   is   full   of   good   and   ill, 
And   it   is  better  so; 


io  Whatever  is,   is   Right. 

For  if   we   never  suffered   pain, 
How   could   we   pleasure   know  ? 

We  should   not   prize    the   glorious   sun 
If   'twere   not   for  the   night, 

And  love   shows  best   opposed   to   hate — 
"  Whatever  is,   is   right." 

And   if   the   All-wise   wills   that   I 

Should   sorrow's   chalice   drain — 
If   he   should   change   my    hours   of   bliss 

To   misery   and   pain — 
Nay,   should  he   choose   to   plunge   my  soul 

In   realms  of  endless   night, 
I  still   should   trust   him,   for   I   know 

"  Whatever  is,   is   right." 

Then  let   us   take   the   good   and   ill, 

Contented   still   to   know 
That   greatest   blessings   often 

From    severest   trials   flow. 


Whatever  is,    is   Right.  n 

And  if   we   sometimes   faint   and   fall 

Beneath    temptation's   might, 
God's   mercy   still  envelopes   us — 
"Whatever  is,  is  right." 


THE     TWO     SLEEPERS. 
An   old  man   sat  in   his   easy-chair, 

• 

Where  he  had   sat   before, 
Day   after  day,   at   eventide, 

For  years  at  least   a  score. 
The   Bible   open   on   his  lap, 

A  smile   upon   his   face — 
And  round  his   brow   a  halo   shone, 

Evolved   by  inward   grace. 

He  heeded  not  the  little  one 
Who  sported   round   his  knee, 

And  twitched   the  tassel   of   his   gown, 

And   shouted   out  with   glee, 
"  Come,   grandpa,   put  your  book    away- 
Tis  nine   o'clock   you   know, 


The  Two  Sleepers.  13 

And  you  must  play  awhile  with   me, 
Before   to   bed  you   go. 


"What!    won't   you   play?"    the    child    went 

on 

With   disappointed   air ; 
"You  said  you   would   at  nine   o'clock — 

Grandpa,   that  isn't  fair ! 
But  never  mind — you're   tired  perhaps — 

And   I'm   a   saucy  thing — 
So   sit  you  still,   and   I   your  pipe 
Will  from   the  mantel  bring !" 

And   yet  the   good   old  man   stirred  not, 

Nor  looked  he   at   the   child, 
Who  laid  her  head   upon   his  book, 

Gazed   up   at  him   and  smiled; 
And  then   she  pouted  pettishly, 

And   then   began   to   weep, 


14  The  Two  Sleepers. 

And   then,   tired   out,   her   eyelids   closed, 
And  she  fell   fast   asleep. 

And   thus   they   slumbered   tranquilly, 

The   grandsire   and   the   child ; 
And   as   they   slept,   it  seemed   as   if 

They   on   each   other  smiled. 
But  while   the  red-cheeked    joyous   child 

The  sleep   of   health   was   taking, 
The   old   man   was  reposing   in 

The   sleep   that   knows   no   waking. 

He  had  passed   away  e'en   while   he   dwelt 

Upon   the   sacred  story, 
And  left   this   sin-embittered  life 

For  one   of   brightest  glory. 
O   picture  rare !     O   lesson   stern  ! 

For  heedless   man   intended — 
The   wee   child   starting   on   the   voyage 

The   grandsire   old   had   ended. 


THE     CHIEF     MOURNER. 

'Twas   eve — a   glorious   eve ! 

The   bright   stars   sparkled  in   the   expanse   above, 

Like    jewels  in   a  kingly   garb  of   blue, 

And    the    round    moon    with    its    soft    and    holy 

light, 

Looked   sadly   down   upon   this   giddy   world. 
The   zephyr,   wafted  from   the   balmy   south, 
Kissed    the   sweet   flowers    and    whispered    to    the 

leaves, 

Whose   emerald  faces  bowed 
In   homage   to   their  unseen  king, 
Who,    gayly   singing   on   his   wanton   way, 
Called  forth   the   ripples   from   the  limpid   lake 
To    join   him  in  his   gleeful   happy   song. 


1 6  The  Chief  Mourner. 

The     whippowill,    sweet    minstrel    of    the    twilight 

gray, 

Poured  forth    her  piteous,   melancholy   plaint, 
And   insect  voices   mingled   with   her  note, 
All    joining  in   a  vesper  hymn 
Which   fell   upon  the  holy   hush   of   night 
Like   sweetest  strains   from   a   celestial   choir. 

Bathed     in     the    moon's    soft     light    the    village 

churchyard   lay, 

Its   marble   tablets  standing  cold   and   still 
Above  the   swelling  mounds, 
Fit   emblems   of    the   frigid,   pulseless   forms   which 

lay  beneath 

In  the   calm,   quiet  sleep   of   silent   death. 
No   more  the   slaves   of  avarice,  pride,   and  black 

revenge — 
No    more    the    weary     toilers     up    the     hill     of 

fame — 
No   more   the  zealous   serfs   of   proud   ambition, 


The  Chief  Mourner.  1 7 

But    freed,    forever    freed,    from    all     the    passions 

wild 
Which  make   this   life   a  burden   and   a  curse. 


Beneath   the  drooping  branches   of   a  willow   tree 

There   is   a  new-made   grave. 

No   stone   as  yet   uprears  its  marble  front 

To  tell   who   sleeps   below; 

For  but   a  few  brief   hours  have  passed 

Since    mourning    friends    stood    round   the   solemn 

» 

spot, 

To    see  the   sleeper  placed   within  his  narrow  bed. 
They   saw  him   gently  laid  to  rest,   and  then, 
With    eyelids  wet,   and   heavy  hearts,   departed 
To   eulogize  his  virtues — and  forget  him. 

Not   all,  however,   will  so  careless  prove; 
For  'mid  his  mourners   one  there  was 
Who   did  not  leave  the   spot. 


1 8  The    Chief  Mourner. 

Motionless     he    stood     till     the    sad     rites     were 

ended, 

And   then,   when   all   were   gone, 
He  stretched  himself   upon   the   piled-up   earth, 
And,   with    one   mighty   sigh   of  grief, 
Gave   up   the   life   which   now   he  did   not  value. 
And    there     he    lies    prone    on    the    damp,    cold 

clay, 

True   to   the   last — chief   mourner  he   of   all. 
And  yet  no   stone   will   ever  mark   his   grave, 
For    he    is    but    a    dog — a    huge     Newfoundland 

dog— 

Who   loved  the   dead   with   so   intense   a   love 
That  the  barbed   shaft  which   laid   his   master  low 
Pierced  his   great  heart   as   well, 
And  so   he   fell   a  martyr    to   affection. 
"All   that  a  man   hath   will   he   give   for   his   life." 
Hero  hath   freely   given   his   life   for  love! 


THE    DRUNKARD'S     DREAM. 

THE  drunkard  lay  on   his   bed   of   straur 

In   a  poverty-stricken   room — 
And  near  him   his  wife  and  children   three 
Sat   shivering   in   their  misery 

And  weeping  amid  the   gloom. 

And  as  he   slept,   the   drunkard  dreamed 

Of  happy  days   gone  by, 
When   he   wooed    and   won   a  maiden   fair, 
With  rosy  cheeks   and   golden  hair, 

And  heavenly,   soft-blue   eye. 

Again  he   wandered  near  the  spot 

Where   Mary  used  to   dwell, 
And  heard  the   warbling   of  the  birds 

His   darling  loved   so   well, 


20  The  Drunkard's   Dream. 

And   caught   the   fragrance   of    the   flowers 
That  blossomed   in   the   dell. 

Again   he  at   the   altar  stood 

And  kissed   his  blushing  bride, 
And   gazing   on   her   beauty,   felt 

His   bosom   swell   with   pride, 
And  thought   no   prince   could   rival   him, 

With  Mary  at  liis   side. 

The  drunkard's  wife  is  brooding   o'er 

The   happy   long   ago — 
Tn   mute   despair   she   sighs   and   rocks 

Her  body  to   and   fro. 

He    dreams  —  she     thinks  —  yet     both      their 
thoughts 

In   the   same   channel   flow. 

But  now   upon   the   drunkard's    brow 
A  look  of  horror   dwells, 


The  Drunkard's    Dream.  21 

And   of   his   fearful   agony  t 

Each  feature  plainly   tells — 
Some   hideous   scene   which   wakes   despair, 

His   dream   of   bliss   dispels. 


Upon  him   glares   a  monster  now 

With   visage  full   of   ire, 
And  yelling  fiends   with  ribald   songs 

Replace  the   feathered   choir, 
And  the  pure  water   of   the   spring 

Is   turned   to   liquid  fire. 


And   as   the  red  flames  leap   and  roar 
Around   the  brooklet's  brink, 

The   fiends   a   flaming   goblet  raise 
And  urge   the   wretch   to   drink, 

While   overhead   the   stars   fade   out 
And   all    is  black   as   ink. 


22  The  Drunkard's  Dream. 

"  Drink,   comrade,   drink !"    the   demons   cry. 
"  Come   to   our  banquet — come  ! 
This   is   the   fitting   draught   for  those 

Who   sell   their  souls   for  rum !" 
No   word  the   drunkard   speaks,   but   stares 

As  he  were  stricken  dumb. 

And  now  they  point  him   to   the  brook, 
And   cry,   "  See,   drunkard !    see ! 

Amid   yon   flames   are   struggling 
Your  wife   and   children   three, 

And   in   their  terror  and   despair, 
They  call  for  help  on  thee!" 

He  rushed  to  aid  them,  but  at  once 
The  demons  blocked  his   way, 

And  then  he  sank  upon  his  knees 
In   agony,   to  pray; 

But  palsied  was   his   tongue,   and  he 
Could  no  petition  say. 


The  Drunkard's  Dream.  23 

The   drunkard   writhed  and  from  his  brow 

Cold  perspiration   broke, 
As  round   the   forms   of   those   he  loved 

Curled-  up   the   flame   and   smoke, 
And,   shrieking  in   his   agony, 

The  wretched   man   awoke. 

He   glared   around  with   frenzied   eyes — 

His   wife   and   children   three 
Sat   shivering  in   their  tattered  rags 

In   abject  misery, 
And   wept  outright  to  look   upon 

His   waking   agony. 

A  pause — a  sigh — and  reason's  light 

Again   did   on  him  beam, 
And  springing  to   his  feet,   he   cried, 
"  Thank   God,   'twas  but   a  dream, 
And   I,   perhaps,   may   yet   regain 

My   fellow-man's   esteem !" 


24  The  Drunkard's  Dream. 

Then   reaching   forth    his   trembling   hand, 

He   from   the   table   took 
A   mother's   gift   when   he   was   wed — 

The  ^ood   God's    Holy   Book ; 
And   while   his   loved   ones   knelt   around, 

A  solemn   vow   he   took. 

"  So   help   me   God,   I   ne'er  again 
Will   touch   the   poisoned   bowl 

Which   ruins  health   and   character, 
And   steeps   in    guilt   the   soul, 

And   swells   the   fearful   list   of    names 
Affixed  to   Satan's   scroll ! 

"  Help   me,    O   Lord  !    to   keep   this   oath — 

To  shun   each   vicious   den 
Wherein   I'd   feel   the   tempter's   power 

To   make  me  sin   again !" 
And  from   his   sobbing    wife's   white  lips 

Arose   a   loud    "  Amen !" 


The  Drunkard's  Dream.  25 

And   then   on   her   wan   visage   beamed 

A  smile   of  joy   once   more, 
And,    clinging    to   her   husband's   neck, 

She   kissed  him   o'er   arid   o'er, 
And   wept   such   happy   tears   as   she 

Had  never   wept   before. 


He   kept  his   oath,   and   from   that   time 
Their   home   did   heaven   seem ; 

No   discord  now — sweet  peace   was   theirs, 
And   love    their  only   theme. 

And   daily  both   gave   thanks  to   God 
Who   sent   the    Drunkard's   Dream. 


HEAVEN. 

THE   world   is  beautiful ;    but   I 
Can   see   in   all   beneath   the   sky, 
Proof   that  the   Great   Divinity 

Designed   that  mortals, 
To   taste   of   perfect  bliss,   must  fly 

To  heaven's  portals. 

If   not,   why   are   our  natures  tried 

By  longings   all   unsatisfied? 

Why   do   our  towers,   reared   with   pride, 

Totter  and   fall? 
Why   are   the   sweets   on   life's   wayside 

Mingled   with   gall  ? 


Heaven.  27 

Music  and  discord  mingle  here — 
The  joyous  laugh,  the  bitter  tear, 
The  sunshine  and  the  storm-cloud  drear, 

All   in   an   hour, 
By  turns   will   crush   the  heart   or   cheer — 

Such   is   earth's   dower ! 

But  there's  a  land  beyond  the  sky 
Where  hope  within  us  can  not  die, 
Where  there  is  neither  tear  nor  sigh, 

Nor  strife,  nor   terror; 
Where   all   is   peace   and  harmony, 

Unmixed  with   error. 

There,   bathed  in   light,   we'll  stand  before 
The   One  who   human   sorrows  bore ; 
Who,   houseless,   famished,   sick,   and   sore, 

Was    yet   man's   friend; 
And   will   be   when   this   life   is   o'er, 

Time   without    end. 


28  Heaven. 

O   glorious   home !     O   mansion   blest ! 
Thou   recompense   for  life's   unrest ! 
Close  to   the   Saviour's   bosom   prest, 

How   sweet   to   be 
Loved,   pitied,   comforted,  caressed, 

Eternally ! 


THE     IRISH     FRENCHMAN. 

AN   English   ship,   by   some   mischance, 
Once   foundered   on   the   coast   of    France; 
But   all   her  crew — at   least   a  score 
Of   stalwart   sailors — reached   the   shore. 

At   first,   of  course,    they   could   but   fret; 
But   sailors   are   a    jolly   set, 
And   seldom   long   will   entertain 
A   grief    on   either  land    or   main. 

So,   when   they'd   mourned   an   hour   or  two, 
With   one   consent   the   hapless   crew 
Ceased   murm'ring   and   began   to   think 
About   securing   food   and   drink 


30  The   Irish   Frenchman. 

Ere  long  they  plenty   had   to   eat — 
A   good   supply   of    fish   and   meat — 
But  how   to   cook   it   knew   they   not, 
Since   they   had   neither  pan   nor  pot. 

Soon   spoke   the   captain,   with   a   cheer, 
"  See   yonder  smoke !     A  cot  is   near 
Where   we   could   borrow   what    we   seek, 
If   we'd   a  man   who   French   could   speak." 

"  Spake   Frinch !"  a   sailor  quick  replied — 
An    Irishman   named    Pat   McBride — 

"  I   learned  the   language   years   ago, 
While   I   was   shtopping   at   Bordeaux !" 

"  Have   patience,   byes   dear,   ivery   one, 
While   I    to   yonder  cabin   run, 
And   in   a    jiffy   yez'll   see, 
I'll   bring   a  griddle   back    wid   me !" 


The  Irish   Frenchman.  31 

Away  he  bounded,   like   a   deer, 
And  when   he   drew  the   cottage   near, 
A   gray-haired   Frenchman   he   espied, 
Who   stood   the   cabin   door  beside. 


"  Och,   polly  voo   Fransay,   monseer !" 
He  said,   with   a  complaisant  leer. 

"  Oui,   monsieur !"    the   man   replied, 
As   he  the   sailor  keenly   eyed. 

"  Well,  thin,   a  griddle   I   would  borrow — 
I'll  let  yez  have   it  back   to-morrow. 
Perhaps   I'll  fetch  it  back  before" — 
The   Gaul  replied,   "  jfe  rientends  pas  T* 

"  It  isn't  yer  long  tongs   I   wish," 
Said   Pat.     "  I   want  to   cook  some  fish. 

*   "I   don't    understand!"     Pronounced    "Zhar    nontong 
par." 


32  The   Irish   Frenchman. 

Me   friends   are   yonder   on   the   shore." 
The   Frenchman   said,    "  ye   rfcntends  pas  /" 

Pat   stopped   awhile   and   scratched   his   head, 
And   then   again   he   loudly   said, 
"  Och,   polly   voo    Fransay — d'ye   hear  ?" 
The   Gaul   replied,    "  Out,    monsieur  f" 

Poor   Paddy   now   began   to   rant — 
"  Your  griddle,   not  your  tongs,    I   want ! 
So   bring  it   out,   and  hould   yer   jaw !" 
The   Gaul  replied,   "  J?e  rientends  pas  /" 

"  D'ye  mind !"    said   Pat,   in   accents   gruff, 
"  I've  borne  your  nonsense  long  enough — 
A'^l    I'll   not   bear   it   any   more!" 
Still   cried   the   Gaul,   "  ye  rientemls  pas  /" 

"  Take   that !"    cried    Paddy,   with   a   frown, 
As  he   the  hapless   Gaul   knocked   down; 


The  Irish   Frenchman.  33 

But   still   the   astonished   man    did   roar, 
"  Je  rientends  pas !     Je  rf en  tends  pas'" 

Back   to   his   comrades   Paddy  flew, 

And   soon   around  him  flocked   the   crew — 

"What    luck!     What    luck,    Pat?"     cried    they 
all. 

"  Troth,"   answered   Pat,   "  no   luck   at   all ! 

"  Byes,    dear,   d'ye   see,   we've   fallen   among 
Frinchmen     who     can't     shpake      their     own 

tongue ; 

Bedad,   to   me   it  seems   a  riddle, 
They   say   ' long  tongs1   instead  of  griddle!" 

MORAL. 

My   moral   plainly   all  can   see — 
No   one   should   a  pretender  be ; 
For  mere   pretense,    when   put   to   test, 
Is  worse   than   ignorance   confessed. 


FAITH. 

O   THOU  !    who   boldest   in   thy   mighty   grasp 
The  wide-spread   waters   of   the   boundless   deep, 
Whose   blessed  smile   is   in   the   sunshine   seen, 
Whose   awful   power   awakes   the   fearful   storm, 
Who   scattereth   o'er  the   mantle   of  the   night 
The     glittering     gems     that     meet     our     upward 

gaze, 

Whose   voice   conies   to   us   in   the  zephyr's  breath, 
And   greets   us  in   the   wild   tornado's   roar, 
Whose    glorious    handiwork    o'er    all    the    earth    is 

seen 

In    every  plant   that  at   thy  bidding  grows 
To  please   the   eye   or   furnish   needful   food — 
In   every  bird   that   skims   the   ether  blue, 


Faith.  25 

To     charm     the     ravished     ear     with     songs     of 

praise — 

In   every  beast   that  roams   the   forest  wild, 
Or  with   meek  patience   toils   for  thankless  man — 
Thou    Infinite!     whose    presence    in    all    space    is 

felt, 
At    once    mysterious,    awful,    grand,    sublime,   and 

beautiful, 

If   I,   a  dying,   worthless   clod   of   earth, 
Might  dare   to  lift   an   humble   prayer  to   thee, 
I'd    ask    that    thou    wouldst    teach    me    what    I 

am, 
And    save    me    from    the    touch    of    vanity    and 

pride, 
Those    twin    fiends    who,    since    the    first    angel 

fell, 
Have    lured    weak,   yielding    man    to    misery   and 

woe. 
Save   me,    O    Father!     from   the    skeptic   tempter's 

power, 


36  Faith. 

Who,  with   his  specious  reasoning,   would   sap   my 

faith— 

And   since   I   can   not   thy   dread   essence   analyze, 
And   make   thee   palpable   to   touch   and   sight, 
Let  me   adore   thee   as   a  little   child, 
Who   can   not   reason ;    but   who   yet   can   feel 
Thy     presence     when     he     kneels     to     thee     in 

prayer. 

I   pray  for  faith,    O   Father!      Faith   to   feel 
That   thou   art   with   me   in   this   mortal   strife — 
Faith  to   believe   that  if   misfortune   lays 
Her  heavy   hand   on   my   devoted   head, 
'Tis  done   for  some  wise  end  known  but  to  thee — 
Faith   to  believe   if   earthly   friends   desert, 
If   loved   and   trusted   ones   fly   from   my   side, 
That     thou     wilt     closer     draw,     and     give     that 

peace 

Which   none   here   can   bestow   nor   take   away — 
Faith     to    perceive    thy    hand     in    all    that    may 

befall, 


Faith.  37 

And  to  exclaim  in  reverence  and  love, 
"  It  is  the   Lord,    and   I   am   still   content !" 
O   glorious   faith!     O   sweet   and  heavenly   trust! 
Be   with  me   to   the   end,   and    bear  my   soul, 
In  confidence  and  peace,  to  its  eternal  home! 


THE    TINKER'S    MISTAKE. 

ATTENTION,  friends,   and   I   will  tell 
What  once   a  luckless   wight   befell — 
A  traveling   tinker,   named   John    Drew, 
Who   daily   tramped   the   country   through. 

A  shiftless  vagabond   was  John, 
Who   little  recked   how   he   got   on ; 
Enough    to   eat,   a  bed   when   tired, 
Was   all   the   wealth   which   he   desired. 

And,   then,   to   give  the   man   his   due, 
He  was   to   friendship  firm   and   true ; 
His   motto   was,   "  Man   is   my  brother, 
And   one   good   turn   deserves   another." 


The    Tinkers  Mistake.  39 

Alert  he  was,  and  wide  awake;  • 
But  once  he  made  a  sad  mistake, 
Which  bowed  him  down  with  shame 

and   grief, 
From   which   he   vainly  sought  relief. 

Thus  runs   the   story:    John,   one   day, 
Had  tramped   a  long  and  weary  way, 
When   a  neat  road-side   inn  he   saw, 
And  panting  halted  at   the   door. 

"  Landlord,"  John  cried,   "  my   worthy   friend, 

Any   old  pots   or  pans   to   mend  ?" 
"Yes,"   said  the  host  with   clouded  brow, 
"  But  money's  rather  scarce    just  now." 

"  I   want  no   cash,"   the  tinker  said ; 
"  For  supper,  breakfast,   and   a  bed, 

I'll   do   the   work,  and   think   it   fun." 
"  Done  !"    cried   the  landlord,   "  double  done  !" 


4C  The    Tinkers  Mistake. 

The   tinker  labored   with    a   will, 
And   backed   by   honesty   and   skill, 
Ere   scarce   one   toilsome   hour  had   sped, 
He'd  finished,   supped,   and   gone   to   bed. 

John   Drew   enjoyed  his   night's   repose. 
And  in   the  morning   he   arose, 
And  having  breakfasted,   he   sped 
Unto   the   worthy   host,   and   said, 

"  Landlord,   my   warmest   thanks   are   due 
For   the   great   kindness   shown   by  you; 
You   certainly   can   keep   an   inn 
As  well  as   I   can  patch   up   tin. 

"  But   still   it   does   not   seem   to   pay, 
And  you   should   find   some   other  way 
To  help    increase  your  slender  store, 
And  keep   the   gaunt   wolf   from    your   door." 


The    Tinker's   Mistake.  41 

"  The   inn   pays   not,"    the   landlord   said, 

"  But   then  I   have   another   trade. 
I   am   the   village   glazier   here, 
And   all   that  brings   is   profit   clear." 

"  Well,  good   luck  to   you !"    uttered  John, 
As  with   his   budget   he   trudged   on; 

"  I   sha'n't   forget,   my  generous   brother, 
That   one   good   turn   deserves   another!" 

Deep   gratitude   felt   stout  John   Drew, 

The  feeling   thrilled   him   through   and  through, 

And   as   the   village   church   he  passed 

A  brilliant  idea  held  him   fast. 

He  paused   awhile  in   thought  profound, 

Then   cast   a   cautious   glance   around; 

Then   muttered  firmly,   "  I    will   do   it, 

E'en   though   I'm  caught  and   made   to   rue    it!" 


42  TJie  Tinker's  Mistake. 

Then   picking   up   a   stone,   John    Drew 
A   window   sent   it   crashing   through ; 
And   then   stone   after  stone   delivered 
Till   every  pane   of  glass   was   shivered. 

Back   to   the   inn   went   John   once   more, 
And  soon   the   landlord   stood   before, 
And   striving  hard  his   mirth   to   smother, 
Cried,   "  One   good   turn   deserves   another  1 

"  You   gave   me   work   my   bread  to   earn, 
And   I   the   favor  now  return  ; 
O   generous  host!     upon   my   soul 

No  window  in  the  church  is  whole. 

"  I've  smashed   each   one,   kind   friend,   and  you 
Will   soon  have  work   enough   to   do. 
For  you're   a   glazier,   and    you   know 
The   work   won't   from   the   village   go !" 


The  Tinker's  Mistake.  43 

The  landlord   glared  at  John   amazed ; 
Then  like  one   by   misfortune   crazed, 
He   caught  him   by   the   throat   and   swore 
Such   oaths   as  ne'er  were  heard  before. 

"  Wretch !"   he  exclaimed,   "  why  did  you  so  ? 
Your  kindness  works   my   overthrow ! 
I   am   the   only   glazier   here, 
But  keep   the  church   whole  by   the  year!" 

MORAL. 

My  moral  plainly  has  this   end : 
Take  no   wrong  means   to   help   a  friend. 
For  if   from   right's   clear   path   you   swerve, 
You'll  hurt  the  cause  you  fain  would  serve. 


TO    A    SKULL    IN     OUR    SANCTUM* 

THOU   loathsome,   grinning,   hideous   thing, 

So   terrible  to   view — 
Reminder   of   the  dread,   grim   king ! 

Is't  possible   that   you 

Once    talked,    and    sang,    and    laughed     with 
glee, 

As   I   do   sometimes   now, 
With   signs  of   pain   and   ecstasy 

By  turns   upon   thy  brow? 

How     didst     thou     fall?      What     caused     thy 

death  ? 
Were   thy  loved   kindred  near 


*  This  poem  was   published  some    years   since  under   a 
nom   de  plume. 


To  a    Skull  in   our   Sanctum.  45 

To   see   thee   draw  thy  latest   breath — 

Thy   dying  words   to   hear? 
Or  didst   thou   perish   far  from  home, 

With  not   a  fond   one   by, 
To   breathe   above   your  lonely  tomb 

A   sympathetic   sigh  ? 

What  were   thy   qualities?     and   what 

Thy   station   in  this   life? 
Didst  dwell  within   an   humble    cot, 

Far  from   the    city's   strife? 
Or  didst  thou  in  the  busy  mart 

Day   after  day  appear, 
Striving  by   every  wile  and  art 

To  heap  up  treasure  here? 

Perchance  thou  wert  a  man  of   law, 

And  practiced   at  the  bar; 
Or  else,  perhaps,   a  man   of    war, 

With  many   an  ugly  scar ; 


46  To   a    Skull  in   our   Sawtum. 

Or  didst  thou   sail   upon   the   deep 

Thy  livelihood   to   gain  ? 
Or  didst   thou   some   vile   hell-hole   keep, 

Thy  base  life   to   maintain  ? 


Or  didst   thou   strut   thy   weary  hour 

Upon   the   mimic   stage  ? 
Or  didst  thou  lend   thy  mental   power 

To   the  historic   page  ? 
Or  didst   thou   play   a   poet's   part, 

And  in  thy  language  pure 
Speak   hope   to   the   despairing  heart, 

And  comfort   to  the  poor  ? 


I  can  not  tell  what  thou  hast  been, 
But   I   know  what  thou   art — 

A  loathsome  thing,   whose   hideous   grin 
Strikes   terror  to   the   heart. 


To  a   Skull  in   our   Sanctum.  47 

I   also  know   that   when  my   soul 

The  better  land  flies   to, 

But  a  few  months   will   onward  roll 

Ere  I   will  look  like  you. 


THE    HUMAN    HEART. 

THOU   knowest   the   heart,    O    Father! 

And  only  thou   canst  know 
Its   trials   and   temptations — 

Its  silent,   secret   woe. 
No   eye  can   scan   its   working, 

Great   Spirit,   save   thine   own ! 
Its   innermost  recesses 

Are  known   to   thee   alone ! 

/ 

Thou  knowest  the  heart,   O   Father! 

The  lines  of   baleful  sin 
Will   seldom   mark   the   human   face 

E'en    while   it   lurks   within. 
And   there   are   those  who   walk   the   earth 

From   all   suspicion   free, 


The  Human   Heart.  49 

Who,   when   thy   jewels   are   made   up, 
Will  have   no   part   in   thee. 

Thou  knowest  the  heart,   O   Father! 

Thou   all  its   faults   can   see ! 
And  thou   wilt  read  it   truly, 

And   judge  it   tenderly 
And  many   a  mourning   sinner, 

By  man   despised   and  banned, 
May,   when   his  deeds   are  reconned, 

Be   found   at   thy  right  hand. 

Thou   knowest   the  heart,    O   Father! 

Thou   King  all  kings   above! 
And   we  may  safely  trust  thee, 

For  thou  art  love — all  love ! 
O    glorious   truth !      O   solace  ! 

How  vain   were  human  bliss, 
If   only  man   could    judge  us, 

And  there  were  no  world  but  this ! 


CREEP    CLOSE    TO     MY    HEART,    O    MY 
DARLING. 

(DESIGNED  FOR  MUSIC.) 

CREEP  close  to  my  heart,   O   my  darling ! 

And  put  up   your  lips  for  a  kiss, 
And   tell   me   what    joy   in   existence 

Can   equal   a  moment  like   this  ? 
I   know   that  time   flies   while   I   clasp   thee, 

But   on  let  his   chariot  roll ; 
While  near  thee,   he   loses  his  power, 

Thou  life-giving  light   of   my   soul! 

Creep  close   to   my   heart,    O   my   darling! 

I   envy   no   king   on   his   throne, 
While   thus   in   sweet   rapture    I   hold   thee, 

My   dear  one !    my   treasure !    my   own ! 


Creep  close  to  my  Heart,   O  my  Darling!      51 

Oh !    what  would  the   world  be   without  thee  ? 

Who   else   could   my  lone   heart   delight? 
How    'twould    darken    my    life    should     I     lose 
thee, 

Thou   day-star  that  rose  on   my   night! 

Creep  close  to  my  heart,   O   my  darling! 

And  tell   me  thy  hopes   and   thy   fears; 
And  shouldst  thou  feel  sorrow  while   talking, 

I'll  soon   kiss   away   thy  bright  tears. 
Come,   tell  me  again   that  you  love   me, 

That  nothing  shall  tear  us   apart, 
While   I   banish   thy  fears  with   my  kisses — 

Thou   radiant   queen  of   my  heart  1 


"GOD    BLESS    OUR    HOME!" 

"  GOD   bless   our  home !"    is   my   orison    tender, 
When    the    bright    sun    gilds    the    east    with    his 

splendor. 
All    through    the    darksome    night   while    we  were 

sleeping 
Angels  a  watch   o'er   our  household  were   keeping. 

"God    bless    our    home!"     As    the    bright    day 

advances 

Every  new  blessing   our  calm  joy   enhances. 
Mercy   and   goodness   still  rise   up   before   us — 
Heaven's    dear    angels    still    spread     their    wings 

o'er  us. 


"  God  Bless   our  Home  /"  53 

"  God  bless  our  home !"  when  approaches  the 
even, 

And  the  bright  stars  gem  the  blue  vault  of 
heaven ; 

By  day  and  by  night  on  our  heads  are  descend 
ing 

Rich  tokens  of   grace  from  a  love  neVer-ending. 

"  God      bless      our      home !"       O      Great     Spirit 

supernal ! 

Keep   alive  in   our  bosoms   a  passion   fraternal; 
Let  thy  love    be    the    beacon    to    guard    and   to 

guide  us, 
And  then  only  death  can  annoy  or  divide  us. 


A  "CAPITAL"   THEME. 

THE  burning  rays  of  the   midday  sun 

Pour  down   on   the   city's   pave, 
And   'neath   its   glare   full   many   a  one 

Is   hastening  to   the   grave. 
While   Mammon   sits   in   her   cool  retreat, 

Far   from   the   town's   turmoil, 
And  cries  with  glee,   "  The  dust  and  heat 
Were  made  for  the  sons  of  toil ! 
Their  muscle   and  bone 
Are   mine   alone — 

I   use   them   at   my   will — 
And  what   care   I 
How   fast   they   die, 

If  they  my   coffers  fill?" 


A    "Capital"    Theme.  55 

A  laborer  from   the   giddy  height 

Of  a  ladder's   topmost   round, 
Struck   by   the   sun-ray's   scorching    blight, 

Comes   toppling  to   the   ground. 
And   Capital   takes   of  his   wine   a   sup, 

While   looking   on   with   a   frown, 
And  says,   "  Our  tenements  must   go   up 

If  laborers   do   come   down !" 

Their  muscle  and  bone,  etc. 


A  widow,   wild  with   grief,   bends   o'er 

The  corpse   of  a  stalwart  man, 
Who  but  a  little   while  before 

His   earthly  course   had  ran. 
And   Capital,   viewing  the  woman's   distress, 

Cries  out  in   a  tone   of  ire, 
"  Canals   and  railroads  must  progress 

If  laborers   do  expire !" 

Their  muscle  and  bone,   etc. 


56  A   "Capital"    Theme. 

Again,   what   dreadful   sight   has   made 

That   mother's   cheek   to   blench  ? 
Her  son   has   dug   with   pick   and   spade 

A   grave   as   well  as  a  trench ! 
And   Capital   cries,   with  mirthful   eyes, 

"  Oh !    ho !    my  workers  brave, 
Delve  if  you   die   the   death,   for  I 

Must   surely   trenches  have!" 

Your  muscle   and  bone,   etc. 

"Ye  are   all  the   slaves   of  my  potent   will, 

As  well   as   your  babes   and   wives, 
And   I   would    not   nourish    your    worth    and 
skill, 

Not  even  to  save  your  lives! 
Ye  shall  fetch,  and  carry,  and  dig,  and  hew, 

Beneath   the  broiling  sun, 
Or  ye  shall  starve — now  which  will  ye  do  ? — 

For  mercy  I   have  none !" 

Your   muscle   and   bone,   etc. 


THE    OUTCAST. 

(AN  "OW'RE  TRUE  TALE.") 

A  YOUTH   sat  weeping  silently, 

And   on  his   woful  face, 
Once  innocent,  might  now  be  seen 

The  shadow   of   disgrace. 
He'd  fallen   from   his  high   estate, 

And   sought   for  peace   in  vain. 
"  My  reputation's   gone !"    he   cried, 
"  I   ne'er  can  smile   again !" 

But   as  he   shed  in  bitterness 
The   penitential  tear, 

His     friends     approached,     and     soothing 
words 

They   whispered  in   his   ear. 


58  The    Outcast. 

They     bade    him     blot     from    memory's   page 

The   past,   and   keep   in   view 
The   future   only,   that  he   might 

Commence   his   life   anew. 


He   did   so,   and   a  little   while 

His  soul   was   pure   and   free 
From   evil   thoughts,   temptation's  power, 

And   all  unchastity. 
But  soon   by   guilty  pleasure's   shaft 

Again   his   heart   was   riven; 
Once  more  he  fell,   but  by  his   friends 

He   was   once   more   forgiven. 


And   there   was  one,   through   all  his   guilt, 

Forever  at  his  side, 
Who  strove  with  more  than  human  love 

His   glaring   faults   to   hide. 


The    Outcast.  59 

In   every   dark   and   stormy   time 

A   sister  near  him   stood, 
Beseeching  him   to   shun   the  ill, 

And  learn  to  choose  the  good. 

A  year  rolled  by,  and  in   that   time, 

Lamentable   to   tell, 
The  victim   of  a  ruthless   fiend 

That  trusting  sister  fell. 
"She  loved  not   wisely,   but  too   well;" 

And  was  her  fault  forgiven  ? 
Had  she  a  friend   to   counsel   her? 

Not  one,  except  in  heaven. 

The  very  brother  that  her  voice 

Had  pleaded  most   to   save, 
Heaped  curses   on   her  hapless  head 

And  wished   her  in   the   grave. 
The  father  who   had   seen   her   grow 

In   beauty   'neath   his   eye, 


60  The   Outcast. 

Addressed   her  as   a  loathsome   wretch, 
And   cast   her   forth   to   die. 

Bleak  was   the  night,   and   as   she   walked 

Along  the   frozen   street, 
The   outcast   trembled   as   she   felt 

The   icy,   chilling   sleet. 
She   reached   a  lofty   edifice, 

Made   the  hard   porch  her  bed — 
And   as   she   sought   the   sleep   of   death, 
"  Forgive  him,   God,"  she  said. 

Next  morning  when   the  daylight  broke, 

Her  stiffened   corpse   was  found, 
And  hurriedly   'twas   taken   up 

And  put  beneath   the   ground. 
No  prayer  was   said,   no   tear  was  shed 

When   she   was  laid   in   earth, 
And  he   who   wrought   her  fall   is  thought 

A   gentleman   of   worth. 


The    Outcast,  61 

Now,   why   is   this  ?     Should   not   the   wretch 

Who   tramples   in   the   dust 
A   young   heart's   purest   offering, 

Forever  be   accursed  ? 
Should   he  not  be   compelled   to   feel 

The   world's   severest  ban, 
And  meet   the   undisguised   contempt 

Of   every  honest  man 

V 

The  wretched  one   who   fell   from   grace 

In   Galilee   of   yore, 
Was  told  by  Him  who  died  for  us 

To   go   and  sin  no   more. 
But  now,   if   woman   steps  aside, 

Society   will   cry, 
"  Sin  on — there  is  no  hope  for  thee  I 

Sin  ever  till  you  die!" 


BEAUTIFUL     BESSIE. 
(DESIGNED   FOR   MUSIC.) 

BEAUTIFUL   Bessie,  young,  joyous,   and  sweet 
As  the  flowers   that   bloom   in    her  sylvan   retreat, 
Is   weaving   a  coronet,   fragrant  and  gay, 
For    she    has     been     chosen    as    Queen    of     the 

May. 
Yet  she    heeds   not   the    rosy-cheeked    youth   who 

stands  near 

And  timidly   whispers   his   love  in   her  ear; 
A    beau    from    the     city    has    turned    her    weak 

head, 
And    she  laughs   at   the   rustic   who    asks   her  to 

wed. 

Chorus — O   wicked  vanity ! 
Fatal  insanity! 

What   will   it   cost? 


Beautiful  Bessie.  63 

Pride   has   o'erpowered  her! 
Sin  has   devoured   her! 
Bessie  is  lost! 


Beautiful  Bessie,  once  Queen   of   the  May, 

Has    thrown    her    sweet    wreath    of   fresh    flowers 

away, 
And    changed    her    old    home    and    her    humble 

attire — 
Denied    her    low    birth     and    resolved    to    climb 

higher. 

And  now  in   a  mansion   of  glitter   and   show 
She     drinks    in    the     words    of    her    grand    city 

beau; 

Gay  is   the  laughter  that  breaks  from  her  lips, 
Bright  are  her  eyes  as  the  clear  wine  she  sips. 

Chorus — O   wicked   vanity  ! 
Fatal   insanity ! 

What  will   it   cost?    - 


64  Beautiful  Bessie. 

Pride   has   o'erpowered   her  1 
Sin  has   devoured  her! 
Bessie   is   lost ! 

Beautiful   Bessie   is   out   on   the   street; 

Cold    blows    the    night    breeze,   and    sharp    is   the 

sleet ; 

But   the  rude  tempest  brings   with   it  no   smart, 
'Tis  not   so  keen   as   the   storm   in   her  heart. 
Brief   was  her   gay   dream,  and*  when   she   awoke, 
Sad   was  her   waking — her   trusting   heart  broke. 
And   ere   another  day   glides   o'er  head, 
Beautiful   Bessie   will  sleep   with   the   dead. 

Chorus — O   wicked   vanity ! 
Fatal  insanity! 

What   has   it   cost  ? 
Pride  has  o'erpowered  her  I 
Sin  has   devoured  her ! 

Bessie  is  lost! 


TRIBUTE    TO    WOMAN. 

A  HEALTH    to    the    lass   with    the    laughing    blue 

eye, 
That   seems    to   have   borrowed   its    hue  from   the 

sky — 

Where  young  love  is  constantly  feeding  his  flame, 
And  virtue  sits  blocking  the   entrance  to   shame. 
Who   weeps  with    the  mourning  and    laughs    with 

the   gay, 

Who   can   comfort   old   age   or  with   infancy  play, 
Who    quarrels    with    no    one,    but    sticks    to    her 

creed — 
Here's  to  her,   for  she   is   a  woman  indeed! 

And    here's   to    the    girl    with    the    lustrous    black 

eye, 
Who    one     moment     may    laugh     and    the     next 

moment  sigh; 


66  Tribute  to   Woman. 

Whose   heart  is   a  casket   of  joy   and   of   grief, 
And   the   first    knows  no  limit,   the    last   no   relief. 
Who     deeply     doth     love,     but     as     deeply     can 

hate — 

A   Christian,   and   yet   a  believer  in   fate — 
Who   for  pity   will   weep,   or   in   anger   will   kill — 
Here's    her    health — she    is   one   of   the    softer  sex 

still ! 

Here's  to  the   coquette  with   the   optic   of   gray, 
Who  will   never  say  yes,  but  can  hardly  say  nay  ; 
Who   falls   dead  in  love   with   each   gay  beau   she 

sees, 
But    can    never    find    one     for    a    long    time    to 

please. 

Who   is   anxious   to  marry,   and  yet  is   afraid; 
Who  lives  a  young  ninny,  and  dies  an  old  maid ; 
Though  blameful  her  follies  it  must  be  confessed, 
Yet    her    health — she's   a    woman   as   well    as   the 

rest. 


Tribute   to   Woman.  67 

In    fine,    here's    to     woman — the    large    and    the 

small, 

The  lean   and   the   fleshy,   the   short   and   the   tall, 
The   dark   eye,  the  blue   eye,  the  hazel  and   gray, 
The  cheerful  and   sullen,   the   grave   and   the   gay. 
I   care  not  how   faulty  their  natures  may  be — 
They    are    women — which     fact    is    sufficient    for 

me; 

As  mother,  friend,  sister,  maid,  widow,   or  wife, 
They  are  God's  best  gift  to  man,  the  consolers  of 

life. 


"I    DON'T    CARE!" 

"  I  DON'T  care !"      How   many   troubles 

From   these  hateful   words  have  sprung 
Far  too   often   falls   the  sentence 

From   the  lips   of   old   and   young. 
How  it  lowers   man's   true   standard ! 

How   it  hurries   to   despair! 
Spleen,   and  spite,   and  hate   are  nourished 

In  the  baleful   "I   don't  care!" 


"  I   don't   care !"     Oh !    why  so   common 
Should   this  vile  expression   be  ? 

Did  it   ever  soothe   a   sorrow, 
Or   to   flight   put   misery  ? 

Did  it   e'er  dispel   a   shadow, 
Or  bring  sunshine   anywhere  ? 


"7  don't   Care.'"  69 

Came  there   ever  yet   a  blessing 
With  the   spiteful   "  I   don't  care"  ? 

Pauper,   in  thy  wretched   garret, 

Did  it   ever  bring  thee   gold? 
Maiden,   did  it  mend  the   quarrel 

Which   arose   when   love   grew   cold  ? 
Sailor  on   the  boundless   ocean, 

Would  you   ever  danger   dare 
On   a   ship,  however  worthy, 

With  the   captain"  "  I   don't  care"  ? 

Heart-crushed  pilgrim   on  life's   highway, 

Did  it  ever  bring  thee  balm  ? 
Toiler  roused  by  man's   injustice, 

Did  it   e'er  thy  spirit  calm  ? 
Christian  reaching  after  heaven, 

Did  it   ever  lead   to   prayer  ? 
Parent,   did  thy  child's   amendment 

Ever  follow  "  I   don't  care"  ? 


70  "7  don't   CareT 

Many   a   wretch   in   anguish   groaning, 

Racked   and   wasted  by   disease; 
Many   a  thief   his   crime   atoning 

In   his   sin-bought   miseries ; 
Many   a  low-browed,   ruthless   murd'rer 

Doomed   to   dangle   in   the   air, 
Owe   the   climax   of   their   follies 

To   the  reckless   "I   don't   care!" 


"I   don't   care!"     Oh!   let  the   sentence 

Never  pass  your  lips   again. 
It  can  never  bring  you   pleasure, 

But  it  may  engender  pain. 
'Mid  all  Satan's  vile  inventions, 

None  more  surely   can   ensnare 
Than   the   worthless,   good-for-nothing, 

Stupid  saying,   "  I   don't   care !" 


THE    HONEST    WORKING    GIRL. 

THE   air  is   chill,  the   city's   pave 

Is  slippery   and   wet; 
The   child   of   wealth   and   luxury 

Is   wrapped  in   slumber   yet  ; 
The  sleet   and  snow   are   rushing  by 

In   many   an   angry   whirl, 
While  hurries  to   her  daily   toil 

The  honest  working  girl. 

No  word  have   I   'gainst   gold  to   say, 

If   it  be  fairly   earned; 
And  fairly  used  by  rich   men,   who 

Sweet  charity  have  learned. 
The   generous  merchant  may  with  pride 

His  banner  broad  unfurl, 


72  The   Honest  Working   Girl. 

But   prouder  is   the   record   of 
The  honest   working   girl. 

Her  clothes,   though  not  the   finest, 

Are  the   best  that   she   can   wear; 
Her  fingers   boast  no   diamonds, 

But  her  face   is   very   fair; 
Her  eyes   are  bright,  and   when   she  smiles 

She   shows   her   teeth   of   pearl ; 
And   love   dwells  in   the  bosom  of 

The  honest  working  girl. 

With   wages  scant  the   ills   of  life 

She's   fated  to   endure ; 
And   yet  she   manages  to   save 

A  trifle  for  the  poor. 
At   any  mean  or  sordid   act, 

With   scorn   her   lip   will   curl, 
For  noble   is   the   nature   of 

The  honest  working   girl. 


The  Honest  Working   Girl.  73 

Then  treat  her  kindly,   ye   proud  ones, 

Who   "  neither   toil   nor   spin ;" 
She   has   to   struggle   very   hard 

Her   daily   bread   to   win. 
And  he — though   dressed  in  finest  cloth — 

Would  be   a  very   churl, 
Who  would  not,   if   appealed   to,   help 

The  honest  working   girl. 


God  bless   the   modest,    gentle   ones 

Who   labor  day  by   day  ! 
And   God  bless  those   with   means   to   spare, 

Who   help   them   on   their  way! 
Ye  who   would,  in  the  better  land, 

Possess   the  priceless  pearl, 
Treat  not  with   scorn,   nor  cold  contempt, 

The  honest  working  girl. 


WHEN    FRIENDS    PROVE     FALSE. 

WHEN  friends  prove   false   and   joys   depart, 

And  life   seems   drear  to   thee; 
When   grief   lies  heavy   on   thy   heart, 

Then  fly,   love,   fly   to   me. 
Be   thou  my   only   treasured   guest, 

Of   all   the   world   the   dearest,   best; 
While  pillowed   on  this   faithful   breast, 

From  pain  thou  shall  be  free.       , 

A  selfish,  sordid  soul  may  know 

The  blighting  touch   of   care, 
But  hearts   that   feel   love's   genial   glow, 

Are  proof  against   despair. 
So,   when  life's   storms  around   us  rise, 

And   fate  her  keenest   arrow   tries, 


When   friends  Prove  False.  75 

We'll   gaze,   love,   in   each    other's   eyes, 
And  read  our   safety   there. 

Let  courtiers   fawn   on  royalty, 

Well   pleased   a  look   to   get, 
I'd  rather  win   a   smile    from  thee 

Than   wear  a  coronet. 
With   thee  life's   darkest   hour  is   bright, 
Deprived   of   thee,   life  has  no  light; 
My  heart  thy  throne  is   day  and  night, 

My  gems  thine  eyes  of  jet. 


IF    YOU    CAN'T     PRAISE    YOUR     NEIGH 
BOR,    DON'T    NAME    HIM    AT    ALL. 

IN   our    judgment     of    others,     we     mortals     are 

prone 

To  talk  of  their  faults  without   heeding   our  own; 
And   this   little   rule  should  be   treasured   by   all : 
"  If  you   can't   praise    your  neighbor,    don't  name 

him  at  all." 

Men's     deeds     are     compounded     of    glory    and 

shame, 

And  surely  'tis  sweeter  to   praise  than  to  blame; 
Perfection     has     never     been     known     since     the 

fall— 
"If   you   can't   praise   your   neighbor,   don't  name 

him   at   all." 


If  You   cau't  Praise  your  Neignior.  77 

Remember,   ye  cynics,  the  mote   and   the   beam; 
Pause     in     your     fault-finding     and     ponder     the 

theme ; 

Who  has  the   least   charity,   quickest  will   fall — 
"  If  you   can't  praise  your   neighbor,   don't    name 

him   at  all." 


If   we   would   endeavor   our  own  faults  to   mend, 
We'd    have    all    the    work    to    which    we     could 

attend : 

Then  let  us  be  open  to   charity's  call — 
"  If  you   can't  praise    your   neighbor,  don't  name 

him  at  all." 


PERHAPS    SO,   BUT    I    DOUBT    IT. 

OLD   Money   Grub  has  piles  of   wealth, 

Yet   toils   like   any   digger ; 
Greed   steels   his  heart   and   saps   his   health, 

But  larger   grows   the   figure. 
He   says  religion   is  a  lie, 

And   men   can   do   without   it; 
Will  this  pay  when   he  comes   to   die? 

Perhaps   so,   but   I   doubt  it. 

And  while   old   Grub   hoards   up   his   gold, 
Young   Grub  makes  haste   to   spend   it, 

Resolved   to   sin    till   he   is  old — 
Then   change   his   life   and   mend   it. 

But  when  age  bids   him   right   the   wrong, 
Do   you   think   he'll   set   about   it  ? 


Perhaps  s#,  but  I  doubt  it.  79 

Will  long  indulgence  make  him   strong  ? 
Perhaps   so,   but   I   doubt  it. 

And   Mrs.    Grub,   the  miser's   wife, 

Who   prates   of    Mrs.   Grundy, 
And  leads   a  very   worldly   life 

On   every  day  but   Sunday ; 
Will  riches   her  the  power  give 

To   conquer  death   or  flout   it? 
Can   she,   by   wishing,   longer  live  ? 

Perhaps   so,   but   I   doubt  it. 

. 
And  young   Miss  Grub,  so   full  of   airs, 

And  so   devoid   of   candor, 
So  fond  of   shirking    household    cares, 

So  very  prone  to   slander; 
Will   Heaven   her  petition  hear, 

However  loud  she   shout  it  ? 
Will  she  rejoice  when  death  draws  near  ? 

Perhaps  so,  but   I   doubt   it. 


8o  Perhaps  so,  but  I  doubt  it. 

Will   strife   and   anger  lead   to  peace? 

Will   riches   bring  contentment? 
Will   vice,   by  free  indulgence,   cease? 

Will   harsh   words   cure   resentment  ? 
When  heaven   wills  that  we  should  bear 

Misfortune,   can   we   rout  it  ? 
And   is   it  wisdom   to   despair  ? 

Perhaps   so,   but   I   doubt  it. 


SHOULD  FORTUNE  FROWN. 

SHOULD  fortune  frown, 
Be  not  cast   down; 

The  sailor  on  the  ocean, 
When   skies   grow  dark, 
Prepares  his   bark 

To  meet  the  storm's   commotion. 
And  so   should  we. 
On  life's  rude  sea, 

Be   ever  up   and  ready 
To   meet   each   storm 
That  comes   along 

With   courage   firm   and   steady. 


82  Should  Fortune  Frown. 

Strive   all   you   can, 
Work   like   a   man 

To  compass  what  you  would  do; 
Then  if   you   fail, 
At  fate   don't   rail, 

You've   done   all   that   you   could   do. 
Hope   on,  hope   ever — 
Dejection  never 

Yet  won   rank   or  station ; 
And  toil,   though   vain, 
At  least   will  'gain 

Kind  friendship's  approbation. 


After  a  shower, 

The  bright-hued  flower 

Will  only  look  the  brighter; 
So  should  the  heart 
By  sorrow's   smart 

Be  rendered  purer,   lighter. 


Should  Fortune  Frown.  83 

No  man   should  fear 
The  ills   met  here, 

With  providence   above  him; 
A  constant  mind, 
A  soul  resigned, 

And  one  true  heart  to  love  him. 


THE  CUBAN  VOLUNTEER'S  FAREWELL. 

COMRADES,   I   am   surely   dying, 

Home   again   I   ne'er  shall  see; 
Would  that   I   had   died  in   battle, 

But  it   was  not   so   to   be; 
Dying  in   this   loathsome   dungeon, 

But  my  pain  will  soon  be  o'er; 
How  my  failing  pulse   would   quicken, 

Could  I  face  the  foe  once  more! 
Death   I   do   not  fear,   my  brothers; 

I  have  met  him  o'er  and   o'er. 
I   would  die   without   a  murmur, 

Could  I  face  the  foe  once  more. 

When  brave,  struggling  Cuba  called  me, 
I   the  summons   did   attend ; 


The  Cuban   Volunteer's  Farewell.  85 

Tell  my  father,   if   you  see  him, 

I   was   faithful   to   the   end. 
Give  this   Bible   to   my   mother; 

Since   our  tearful  last   good-by, 
It  has  been   my   close   companion, 

And  has   taught   me  how   to   die. 
Death   T  do   not  fear,   my  brothers, 

I   have   faced  him   o'er   and   o'er; 
I   would  die  without   a   murmur, 

Could  I  meet  the  foe  once   more. 


Now  the  shadows  gather  round  me, 

And  my  life  is   ebbing  fast ; 
Bear  me,  comrades,   to  the  window, 

On  the  sun  I'd  look  my  last. 
Farewell,   now,  my  heart-sick  brothers, 

You  will   join  me  by  and  by; 
If  you  perish  here,   remember, 

'Tis  for  freedom  you  will  die. 


86  The  Cuban    Volunteer's  Farewell. 

Death   I   do  not  fear,   ray   brothers, 
I   have  faced  him   o'er  and   o'er; 

I   would   die  without   a   murmur, 
Could  I  meet  the  foe  once  more. 


Fiends  of  Spain!     Incarnate  devils! 

Cuba's  sons  shall  yet  be  free! 
All  your  cruelty   and   venom 

Can   not  crush   out   Liberty! 
Still  survives  the   holy   passion 

That  has  carried   us  thus  far — 
Soon  will  beam   on   the  horizon 

Cuba's  independence  star ! 
Death  I   do  not  fear,  my  brothers, 

I  have  faced  him  o'er  and  o'er; 
I  would  die  without  a  murmur, 

Could  I  meet  the  foe  once  more. 


SEND    THE     LITTLE    ONES     HAPPY    TO 
BED. 

SEND  the  little  ones  happy  to  bed, 

When  closes  the  troublesome   day; 
Let  no  harsh  invective  be  said, 

To  ruffle  their  minds   while   they  pray. 
Sore   trials  and  troubles   full   soon 

The  sweet  sleep  of   childhood  will  ban ; 
Then  let  them   lie    joyously   down, 

And  cherish  bright  dreams  while  they  can. 

Send  the  little  ones  happy  to  bed, 
Though     they    may    be     mischievous    and 
wild — 

'Nature  seldom  bestows  a  wise  head 
On  a  rosy-cheeked,  light-hearted  child. 


88  Send  the  Little  Ones  Happy  to  Bed. 

Then  let  their  glad   spirits   have   play, 
And  brighter   and   stronger   they'll  grow, 

Like  a  stream   that  runs   free   on  its   way, 
And   suffers   no   check  in   its  flow. 


Send  the  little  ones  happy  to  bed, 

You  know  not   what  ill   may  be   near ; 
Ere  the  morning  your  pets   may  be   dead, 

Then   vain  the  regret   or  the   tear. 
So  let  them  lie  down  with  delight, 

And   fail  not  to   give   and   to   take 
A  kiss  when   they  prattle   "  Good  night !" 

And  a  kiss  in  the  morn  when  they  wake 


A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL. 

AWAY  with  care  and  melancholy  ! 

'Tis  the  merry   Christmas   time; 
'Neath  the  mistletoe   and   holly, 

We'll  dance  to  the   Christmas   chime. 

This  is   the   day  that   Christ   was   born, 

And  we  should    joyful   be, 
For  the   Saviour's  natal  star 
Shed 'its  blessed  beams  afar 

Over  lost  humanity. 

Praise  the   Saviour  high  in   glory ! 

Loudly  let  your  anthems  ring ! 
Oh !   how  wonderful  the  story — 

The  babe  is  now  our  king ! 


go  A   Christmas  Carol. 

"Good-will   to   men  and   peace  on  earth!" 

Our  heartfelt   chorus   be, 
Till   we   gain   the   happy   shore, 
Where   we'll  praise  him   evermore, 

Throughout   eternity. 


KISS    ME    GOOD    NIGHT,   DARLING. 

THE  clock  has  struck  ten,  Willie,  dear,  and  you 

know 

Papa  has   declared   that   at   ten   you   must   go. 
Old   folks   are   so  queer!    But  perhaps  he  is  right. 
So   kiss   me   good  night,   darling !     Kiss   me   good 

night ! 


I  declare  'tis  eleven,   and  you  are  here  still! 
You    know    well    enough    Pm    not    keeping    you, 

Will! 
If  you   don't   go    at  once,    I   must    put   out    the 

light. 
So  kiss  me  good  night,  darling!     Kiss  me  good 

night ! 


92  Kiss  Me  Good- Night,  Darling. 

'Tis   twelve   o'clock,  now,  and   papa's  out  of  bed ! 
Don't  you   hear  his    gruff   voice   and    quick   step 

overhead ! 
Here's  your  hat !     Go  at  once !    Oh !  I'm  in  such 

affright ! 
Quick!     Kiss   me    good    night,  darling!     Kiss   me 

good  night ! 


A    WORD     IN    ANGER    SPOKEN. 

A  WORD   in   anger  spoken — 

How   often   does   it   prove 
The  cause   of   cold   indifference 

In  hearts  whose  rule   is   love  ! 
How   oft  the   sweetest  pleasures 

Humanity  can  know 
Are  by  a  harsh   expression 

Turned  into  bitter  woe  ! 

A  word  in   anger  spoken — 

How  many    sighs,   and  tears, 
And   sleepless  nights,   and  cheerless   days, 

And  weary,   weary  years, 
Have  been  its  mournful  product, 

Though   charity   essayed 
To  heal   the   deadly,   festering  wound 

Which   thoughtless   anger  made  ! 


94  A    Word  in  Anger  Spoken. 

A   word   in    anger  spoken — 

A   blot   upon   life's   page 
Which   oft   will   leave   its   impress 

From  youth   to   latest   age. 
Man   may  forgive   an   insult ; 

But  still   it  bears   its   fruit, 
For   memory   is   a   tyrant 

Whose   rule  is   absolute. 

A  word  in   anger  spoken 

Has  oft   engendered  strife 
Between  the  loving  husband 

And   the   doting,   trusting   wife  ; 
Has   caused   a  barrier  to   rise 

Between   the   child   and  mother, 
And  led   foul   enmity   to   part 

The  sister  and  the  brother. 

A  word  in  anger  spoken — 
If  you   have  felt  its  blight, 


A    Word  in  Anger  Spoken.  95 

Resolve  henceforth   to   "  know  thyself," 

And   train   thy  spirit   right. 
Keep   watch   upon  thy   every   thought, 

Thy  every  look   and   word, 
And  thou   shalt  live   from  sorrow  free, 

As   joyous   as   a  bird. 

A  word  in   anger  spoken — 

Oh  !    weigh    the  sentence  well ; 
For  it   contains   a  lesson 

That   words   are   vain   to   tell. 
The  human   heart   is   faulty, 

And  the   wisest   of  us   all 
May   drop   a  careless   word  in   wrath, 

That  we  would  fain  recall. 


"I     CAN'T!"       AND     "I'LL    TRY." 

"  I   CAN'T  !"    exclaims   the   truant   boy, 

While   loitering  on   the   way; 
u  I  can't !"    repeats   the   imbecile, 

Whose   locks   are   streaked   with   gray; 
"  I   can't !"     It   is   the   common   phrase 

Of   all   inclined  to   fly 
When   dangers   menace;   but   the   brave 

Would   rather   say,    "I'll  try!" 

"I   can't!"     It   stultifies  the   soul 

And  palsies  all  within ; 
'Tis  made  the  flimsy,  weak  excuse 

For  each  besetting  sin. 
And  many  an  ill  that  stays  by  us 

Away   would   quickly   fly, 


"/  Can't'"    and  "Til   Try."  97 

If   we   would   hold   our  heads   erect 
And  firmly  say,  "I'll   try!" 

The  drunkard   says,   "  I   can't !"  when  he 

Is   counseled   to   abstain; 
The  sluggard  drawls,  "  I  can't !"   when  told 

By   work   his  bread   to   gain. 
The  hardened  thief   exclaims,   "  I   can't 

Temptation's   door  go   by !" 
But  each  his   fault   could   master 

If   he'd  stoutly   say,   "I'll  try!" 

"  I   can't !"     Had   Fulton   thus   exclaimed 

When    jeered  at   as   insane; 
Or  bold   Columbus   when  his   crew 

Revolted   on   the  main ; 
Or  brave   Galileo,   when   forced 

His    theory  to   disown ; 
Or   Morse,  when   pinched  by  poverty 

And   struggling   on   alone — 


98  "7  Can't .'"   and  "Til   Try." 

Had  these  brave  souls,  and   many  more 

Who  won  the   wreath   of   fame, 
Sat   down   to   murmur   and   lament 

When   difficulties   came, 
How  many  blessings   we   should  miss 

Which   make   us   glad   to-day, 
And   what   a   sombre   cloud   would   on 

The  hill   of   science   lay. 

"I   can't!"     Oh!    drop   the   hateful   phrase, 

Ye   toilers   everywhere ; 
Be   earnest   on   life's   battle-field, 

Fail  not   to   do   and   dare ! 
Faint  not,   if   stern   reverses  come, 

But  fix  your  faith  on  high, 
And  let  your  noble  motto  be, 
"With  God's  good  help,  I'll  try!" 


LINES. 

(WRITTEN  IN  "OUR  CARRIE'S"  ALBUM.) 

LUSTROUS   eyes  revealing 

Young  Love  peeping  through, 
Heart   of   warmest   feeling, 

Nature  kind   and   true; 
Lineaments  which   tell   us 

Thou   wert  born   to   bless, 
Friendship's   counsel  zealous, 

Gentle   Carrie   S. 

Full   of   toil   and   sorrow 

Is  this   weary  life, 
Each   succeeding  morrow 

Brings   its   care   and   strife; 


ioo  Lines. 


But   may   heavenly   power 
Shield   thee   from   distress, 

Guard   thee   every   hour, 
Trusting   Carrie   S. 

Time  may   overcome   thee, 

Touch   thy   hair   with   gray, 
Steal   thy  beauty   from   thee, 

Take   thy   strength   away; 
But   thy  soul  will   never 

Lose  its  loveliness; 
That  will   bloom   forever, 

Truthful   Carrie   S. 


COME    BACK    TO     ME. 

(DESIGNED     FOR     MUSIC.) 

Too   long  have   we  been  parted — 

Come   back  to  me! 
I'm  lonely,  broken-hearted — 

Come  back   to   me ! 
I   tread   familiar  bowers, 
But   scentless   are   the   flowers, 
And   weary  are  the  hours — 

Come  back  to  me ! 

Think  of   your  promise   broken — 

Come  back  to   me ! 

Your  words   of   love   once   spoken — 
Come  back   to   me ! 


IO2  Come  Back   to  Me, 

Hearts   truly   pledged  forever 

No  thoughtless  word  should  sever, 

The  past  we'll   think   of   never — 

Come  back  to  me! 

I've  loved  since  first    I  met  thee — 
Come   back   to   me ! 

I   never  can   forget   thee — 

Come  back   to   me ! 

With  looks   of   love   I'll   meet   thee, 

With   words   of   love   I'll   greet   thee; 

Relent,   then,   I   entreat   thee — 

Come  back   to  me ! 


A    PLEA    FOR    CUBA. 

FREEMEN  of   our  great  republic, 

Bend  to  heaven   the  knee — 
Raise   your  hands  and  shout  the  chorus, 

Cuba  shall  be   free ! 

Spain,  vile   Spain,  with  steel   and  halter, 
Hovers   over  freedom's   altar, 
Cowards  are  we   if   we  falter — 

Strike  for  liberty! 

By  the   graves   of   our  brave  sires, 

By  their  great  deeds   done, 
By  sweet   freedom's  sacred  fires 

Lit  at   Lexington; 
By  our  blood-cemented  nation, 
By   each  bondman's   aspiration, 
By  our  hopes   of   dear  salvation, 

Do  not   Cuba   shun ! 


IO4  A  Plea  for  Cuba. 

Hark !    across   the   stormy   waters 

Comes  a  piteous   cry; 
'Tis   from   Cuba's   sons   and   daughters, 

"Will   ye  let   us   die?" 
Freemen,   up !     No  longer  dally  ! 
Round   fair   Cuba's   standard  rally, 
From   the  mountain   and   the   valley — 

Cause  her  foes  to  fly ! 

Shall  Spain's   slabbers   wield   the   sabre, 

Flushed   with   victory  ? 
God  forbid !     Let's   pray   and   labor ! 

Cuba  must  be   free ! 
Clamor   for  her  recognition, 
Hurl  her  tyrants   to   perdition, 
Thus  may  we  fulfill   our  mission, 

Death  to  slavery! 


BE    HUMBLE. 

WHO    glories    in    power  ?     Who     boasts    of    his 

might  ? 
Who    worships    his    gold-heaps     by    day    and    by 

night  ? 

Who   makes   only  vice-gilded   pleasure   his   aim  ? 
Who  strives  only   after  the   chaplet   of   fame  ? 

Vain     mortal!      Thy     power     and     might     must 

decay, 

Thy  riches   take   wing   and  fly   swiftly   away ! 
Thy  dearly-bought  pleasure  be  followed  by  pain, 
Thy  wreath   of  renown  prove  unstable   and  vain  ! 

What  is   this   existence  to   which   we   all   cling? 
It  passes   away  like   a   bird   on   the   wing. 


io6  Be  Humble. 

Tis    a    breath,    'tis    a    vapor,    'tis    a    song,   'tis    a 

sigh, 
We  weep,   we  rejoice,   we   grow   weary,   we   die ! 

And   this   ends   the   story — the   babe   of   to-day 
Crowds   out   the   grandsire   who   passes   away; 
And  the  babe   in  its  turn   hurries   on  to  the   goal, 
Where    death    stands    awaiting    the    flight    of    the 
soul. 

Be  humble,   then,   mortal,  thou   worm   of  the  sod, 
And  bend   thy  proud  knee   in   contrition   to    God, 
Who   only   is   mighty,   who   only   can   save, 
And  whose    smile    can    light    up   e'en    the    gloom 
of   the   grave. 

Be  humble,   and  patient,   and  ready   to   go 
Whenever  thy  mission   is   finished   below ; 
Then  rest  thee  contented,  no  terror  can  come 
When    God    in    his    wisdom    shall    summon    thee 
home. 


A    CHILD'S    SONG    OF    PRAISE. 

"  BLESS  the  Lord,  O  ray  soul !   and  forget  not  all   his  benefits." 

AT   morning  and   at   eventide, 

Father  above,   I   call   on  thee 
To  make   me  pure,   to   check   my  pride, 

And  teach  me  sweet  humility. 
This  is  my   duty,   but    I   know 

It  is  not   all   my  tongue   should  say; 
From   thee  all  earthly  blessings  flow, 

And  I  should   praise  as  well  as  pray. 

Who  shields  me   from  the   howling  storm  ? 

Who   watches  me  in   slumber   sweet? 
Who   gives  me   clothes  to  keep  me  warm  ? 

Who  furnishes  me  with  food  to  eat  ? 


io8  A  Child's  Song  of  Praise. 

Who   makes  my  limbs   so  lithe   and  free 
When   with   my   little   mates   I   play  ? 

'Tis   thee,   O   gracious   God !    'tis  thee 
And   I   must  praise   as   well  as  pray. 

For  father  kind  and   mother  dear, 

And   friends   who   are   so   true   to   me, 
For  all   the   good   I   see   and   hear, 

I   am   indebted,    Lord,    to    thee. 
For  brain   to   learn,   and  books   to   read, 

And   grace   to  keep   bad  thoughts  away  j 
For  these,   O    Lord!    I   feel,   indeed, 

That   I   should   praise  as   well  as  pray. 

And,   gift  all   others  prized  above, 

Thy  precious  word,  my  hope   and   light, 

Which  fills   my  heart  with   sacred  love, 
And  keeps  me  in   the  path   of  right; 

Which  tells  me  of   a  Saviour  dear 
Who   watches   o'er  me   night   and   day; 


A   Child's  Song  of  Praise.  109 

Oh!  is  it  not,   then,   very   clear 
That  I   should  praise   as  well   as   pray  ? 

Yes,   while   I   live   I'll  praise  the   Lord, 

And   daily   strive   in   grace  to   grow; 
Directed  by  his  precious  word, 

I'll   walk   where   living   waters   flow. 
Oh!    praise  the   Lord,   my  soul,   and  raise 

And  keep   alive   the   sacred   flame, 
And  all  that  is   within  me  praise 

My  gracious  Maker's  holy  name. 


A    WANDERER'S    PRAYER. 

FATHER  in  heaven,  when  ray  soul 

Shall   take   its   flight    from   earth, 
Grant   that    my   frame   may   perish   on 

The   soil   that   gave   it  birth; 
Grant  that  the   friends   who   cherished   me 

In  sunshine   and  in   gloom, 
Who  sorrowed   and  rejoiced   with  me, 

May  lay  me  in   the  tomb. 

I    know  that  when   the  spirit  flies 

Its  prison-house   of   clay, 
The   wondrous  structure,   cold  and   dead, 

Soon  hastens   to   decay ; 
But   though   the  pulseless,   mouldering  clod 

No   sense   of   joy   may   have, 


A    Wanderer's  Prayer.  1 1 1 

My  spirit   will  rejoice   when   friends 
Assemble    r'ound  my   grave. 

I   wish  no   monumental   pile 

To  mark   the   solemn   spot, 
No  epitaph  in  fulsome   style 

To  tell   what   I   was  not; 
But   I'd  have   those  who   knew  me  here, 

As   o'er  my  tomb   they  bend, 
Say,   with   a  feeling   all   sincere, 

"  He  was   a  faithful   friend !" 


THE     POOR     MAN'S    SONG. 

I   LIVE   in   a   garret,   but   what   do   I   care  ? 
I'm   safer   than   some   of   my   great  neighbors   are ; 
The  loss   of    my   wealth    I'm   not    troubled    about, 
And  my   diet   will   certainly  keep   off   the   gout. 
Then   a  truce   to   all    grumbling,   for  happen   what 

may, 
While   I've  health,  I'll  be  happy  by  night  and  by 

day. 

There's    old    Mr.    Graball,    whose   dwelling's   hard 

by, 

At  the  loss   of  a   dollar  is  ready  to  cry; 

And    yet    I'll    be    bound     that     the    old    fellow's 

dimes 
Outnumber,   by   far,   his    quintillion   of   crimes. 


The  Poor  Man's  Song.  113 

Then   a  truce   to/  all   grumbling,   the   morsel  I  eat 
Is  honestly   gotten,   and   wholesome,   and  sweet. 

Then  there's   Mr.   Freeliver,   over  the  way, 
Who   groans   with   dyspepsia,   day   after   day; 
If    Nature  permitted,   how   quickly   would  he 
Be  willing  to   barter  conditions   with   me  ? 
Then    a   truce    to    all    grumbling,   for    champagne, 

'tis  clear, 
Is  not  so   conducive   to  health  as  small-beer. 

Give  me  but  the  power   to  labor,    and   then 
As  happy   I'll  be   as   the  richest   of   men ; 
And  the  evils   committed  in   grasping   for  gold 
Can't  trouble   my  conscience  when   I   have   grown 

old. 
Then  a  truce   to   all    grumbling,   for   happen   what 

may. 
While   I've  health,  I'll  be  happy  by  night  and  by 

day. 


PLAIN    TALK. 

O    LIZZIE,   dear!   incline   your   ear 

To   Bob,   your  faithful  lover, 
Whose   talk   is   plain,   and  who  in   vain 

Endeavors  to   discover 
Your  diamond   eye,   your  spicy   sigh, 

Your  neck   of   alabaster, 
And  who  would  deem  a  golden  curl 

A  terrible   disaster. 

The  man   with   cash   and  black  mustache, 
From   college,   full   of   learning, 

With  body  laced,   by   fashion   graced, 
Has  powerful    discerning ; 

He  sees   the   diamond,   pearl,   and   gold, 
A   sprite   his   heart   is   breaking, 


Plain  Talk. 

While   I    see  but   a  charming   girl 
Of  old  Dame  Nature's  making. 

I  love  thee,  Lizzie,   dear  as  life, 

But  would  not,   were   I   able, 
Have  thee  made  half   a  mineral 

And  half  a  vegetable. 
Nor   would   I   have  thee  pale   and  sad, 

Thy   mirthfulness   concealing, 
But  red-cheeked,   lively,   gay,  and  glad, 

A  young  heart's  honest  feeling. 

Then,   Lizzie,   if   you'll  be  my  wife, 

Believe  me,   I'll   endeavor 
To  make  thee  happy  all   my  life, 

And  leave  thee,   darling,  never. 
I  may  not  be  forever  glad, 

But  I  a  smile  can  borrow 
Of  thee  whenever  I  am  sad, 

And  pay  it  on   the  morrow. 


TAKE     IT    EASY ! 

TAKE  it  easy,   men  of  muscle ! 

Take   it  easy,   men   of   brain  ! 
You   may  stumble  if   you  hurry, 

And  you  nothing  then   will   gain. 
Any  work   that's   worth  the   doing 

Surely  is   worth   doing   well; 
Rather   than  by  haste   destroy   it, 

Better  stop   and  breathe   a  spell. 

Take  it  easy,   mirthful  maidens  ! 

Take  it  easy,  girls   and  boys! 
Every   pleasure  rashly  followed, 

In   the   end   too   surely  cloys. 
Never   haste  to  grasp  the  shadow 

When  the   substance  is   secure! 


Take  it  Easy  !  117 

Trust  me,   there  is   health   and   safety 
In  the   motto,    "  Slow   and   sure." 

Take  it   easy,   slave   of   passion ! 

Hasty  words  will  nothing  gain ; 
While  your  breast  is  filled  with  anger, 

All  your  work  will  be  in  vain. 
Curb  your  temper  till  cool  reason 

Has  a  chance  to  play  its  part, 
And  your  task  will  be  the  easier, 

And  the  purer  be  your  heart. 

Take  it   easy,   mourning  pilgrim ! 

Sad   at  heart   and   sick   at  soul, 
Why    shouldst    thou,    when    heaven    is    cer 
tain, 

Be  so  swift  to  reach  the  goal  ? 
Wait  God's  time,  and  thy  probation 

On  the  earth  will  soon  be  o'er, 
And  thou'lt  wrestle  with  temptation 

And   heart-sorrow  nevermore. 


THE     BOUQUET-GIRL. 

"  BOUQUETS  !"    like   a  mourning  spirit's   wail 

Arose   on   the    midnight   air, 
From   the   lips   of  a   girl   whose  features  pale 

Were   marked  by   grief   and   care. 
Her  azure   eyes   were   dim    with   tears, 

No   purchaser   she  found  ; 
And  oh !    it  seemed  the   woe  of   years 

Was   in   that   plaintive   sound. 
Bouquets !    bouquets !    oh !    pray   do   buy, 

At  home   there  is   no   bread; 
I   hear  my  little   brother's  cry, 

And   darling  mother's   dead ! 

"  Bouquets !"    and   the  poor  child's   tired   feet 
Touched   wearily   the   ground, 


The  Bouquet- Girl.  119 

While    the    night    wind    through    the    lonely 
street 

Rushed    by  with   a   moaning   sound. 
"  Bouquets  !" .  in   a  low,   despairing  tone, 

While   onward   still   she   crept, 
And  then   between   a  sigh   and  moan 

She   sought   a   seat   and   slept. 
Bouquets !    bouquets !    oh !    pray   do   buy, 

At  home  there  is  no  bread ; 
I   hear  my  little   brother's  cry, 

And  darling  mother's  dead. 


FRIENDLESS    NELLY. 
(DESIGNED   FOR   MUSIC.) 

LITTLE   Nelly,   pale  with   hunger, 

Wanders  through   the   street, 
Heavy   is   her  heart   with   sorrow, 

Weary   are  her  feet. 
Penniless  she  journeys  homeward, 

Shivering  with   dread, 
For  her   father  is   a  drunkard, 

And   her  mother's   dead. 
What   a  sad,   sad  lot  for   Nelly, 

Nelly   meek   and   mild! 
Heavenly   Father,   oh !    in   pity 

Shield   the   drunkard's   child. 


Friendless   Nelly.  121 

Nelly's   eyes   are  large   and  lustrous, 

Golden  is  her  hair, 
And  she  has  a   sweet   expression, 

Nelly's   very  fair. 
But  the   child's   unearthly  beauty, 

That   should   be   her  crown, 
All  too  soon   may  prove   the  burden 

That   will   drag  her  down. 
What  a  sad,   sad  lot  for   Nelly, 

Nelly  meek  and   mild! 
Heavenly   Father,   oh !    in  pity 

Shield   the   drunkard's   child. 


Nelly's   character  is   spotless, 

She   is   pure   as   snow ; 
Can   she,   in   the   wicked  city, 

Keep   forever  so  ? 
Sin,   and   sorrow,   and  temptation, 

Still   her  steps   pursue; 


122  Friendless   Nelly. 

Motherless,   with   no   adviser, 
What   will   Nelly   do? 

What  a  sad,   sad  lot   for   Nelly, 
Nelly  meek   and   mild ! 

Heavenly   Father,   oh !    in   pity 
Shield  the   drunkard's   child. 


CRAZY    ESTELLE. 

(DESIGNED  FOR  MUSIC.) 

IN  the   great   city  she  wanders  alone; 

None   to   befriend  her — uncared   for,   unknown — 

Muttering   ever  of  joys   that  have   fled. 

Calling  on   some   one   who   sleeps   with    the   dead. 

What  her  life's  story  is  no   one  can  tell — • 

She  is  known   only   as   Crazy   Estelle. 

No   one  to  pity  her,   none  to   caress — 

God  help  the  wanderer  in  her  distress. 

CHORUS. 

No   one  to  pity  her,   none  to   caress — 
God  help  the  wanderer  in  her  distress ! 

Hopelessly  lost  in  the  city's   vast  throng, 
Sadly   she   warbles   a  plaintive  love-song; 
Looking   around   her,   but  looking  in   vain, 
For  a  loved   face  she   will   ne'er  see   again. 


124  Crazy   Estdle. 

Wild  is   her  dark   eye   and   frenzied   her  air, 
And   her  white   brow   is   convulsed   by   despair; 
But   not  a  wicked   thought   enters   her  head, 
She  only   seeks   for  a   lover  that's   dead. 

CHORUS. 

No   one   to  pity  her,   none   to   caress — 
God  help   the   wanderer   in   her   distress ! 

What   will   become   of   her  out   in   the  street  ? 
Heart-sick   and   foot-sore,  no   happy  retreat; 
Who  will  take  care  of  her  ?     Where  can  she  go  ? 
Wretched,   forlorn,   and   o'erburdened   with   woe. 
No   one  on   earth   can   the   wanderer  save, 
And  she   will   only  find  rest   in   the   grave. 
Guard  her,  bright  angels,  where'er  she  may  tread, 
Seeking  in   vain   for  her  lover  that's   dead. 

CHORUS. 

No   one   to   pity    her,   none   to   caress — 
God  help   the   wanderer  in   her  distress ! 


HEART-HUNGER. 

'Tis   sweet   to   feel  in   this   sad  world  of  change, 

Where    selfishness    and    pride   so   much   abound, 
That  there   is   one,   however  wide  we  range, 

To   greet   us  lovingly  when   home   is  found. 
One   whom  we  know   will  faithful  be  till   death, 

Whose    heart-throbs    play    in    concert    with    our 

own, 
Whose  love   will  bless   us   till   our  latest    breath. 

To   whose  pure  bosom  falsehood  is  unknown. 

The  famished   wretch   who   droops    his    head  with 
shame 

May  be  relieved  by  any  passer-by ; 
The   ardent  youth   who   hungers   after  fame 

Has  always  hope   of   feasting  presently. 


ia6  Heart- Hunger. 

But,   oh !   to   feel   that   we   are   all   alone, 

That  love's  sweet  cup  has  vapored  to  the  lees, 

That   there   is   no   heart   we   can   call   our   own — 
This  is   a  hunger  nothing  can   appease. 

To   wander  on   without   a  ray  of  hope, 

To   find  no   respite   even   in   our   sleep, 
Life's   sun   extinguished,   in   the   dark   to   grope, 

And     hopeless    through     this     weary     world     to 

creep ; 
No   balm   for  us,   no   medicine  can   cure — 

The   ailing  is  beyond   the  reach   of   art — 
All  other  hunger  strong  men   may  endure, 

Except  the  weary,  dreary  hunger  of  the  heart. 


TWILIGHT    MUSINGS. 

'TwAS  twilight — the  bright-plumaged  birds  were  at 

rest, 

And  the   sun  in  his   glory  had  sunk  in   the  west, 
All  labor  had   ceased,   and   the   whippowil's    song 
Like  a  dirge   from   the  forest  came  wailing  along. 

A  maiden   sat   watching  with  wondering   eye 
The  many-hued   cloudlets   that   skirted  the  sky, 
Which    seemed,   as    they   varied    their    colors,    de 
signed 
To  furnish   a  type   of   the   changeable  mind. 

As  she   gazed,   twilight   called  forth   the   fair    stars 

of   even, 
To    light    with    their    lustre    the    blue    vault    of 

heaven. 


128  Twilight  Musings. 

And   soon  like   a   host  in   their  silvery   sheen, 
The  pure  lamps  in   ether  were   twinkling  seen. 

They   spangled  the  heavens   in   dazzling  array, 
And   night  drove   the   sober-browed  twilight  away; 
But  still  the  young  maiden  in  rapture  gazed  there, 
"  O   night !"  she   exclaimed,  "  thou  art  wondrously 
fair." 

But   e'en   as   she   spoke,   a    low,  murmuring    plaint 
Came,   mildly   at  first,   as   the   sigh   of   a  saint ; 
Then   swiftly  the   storm-king   arose   on   the   air, 
And  left  but   one  bright   star   to   radiate   there. 

"  Alas !"    cried   the   maid,   "  'tis   a  picture   of   life ! 
How   often   is   happiness   turned   into   strife ! 
Bright    prospects    may    light    us    awhile,   but    how 

soon 
May    frowning    misfortune     make     night     of     our 

noon ! 


Twilight  Musings.  129 

''  Yet,   though   grief   wring    the    bosom    and    tears 

dim  the   eye, 

One  bright  star  at  least  shall  illumine    life's   sky; 
For  wretched  indeed  must  that  pilgrim   be 
Who  can  not  one  pure  ray  of  blessed  hope  see!" 


YOU'LL    WEEP    WHEN     I     AM     DEAD. 

(DESIGNED  FOR  MUSIC.) 

SMILE   while   thou   canst,    be   gay   and   unheeding, 

Riches   and   splendor  at  last   are   thine   own ; 
Strive   to   forget   that   a   true   heart   is   bleeding, 

Proud  in   its   anguish,   but   wretched   and   lone. 
And  when  the  clouds  of  despair  hover  o'er  thee, 

When    the    false    friends    of   thy    summer    have 

fled, 
Then   will   my   sorrowing  shade   flit  before   thee ; 

False  to  me  living,  you'll  weep  when  I'm  dead 

Blithesome   and   free  in   life's    morning    you   found 

me, 
Sorrow  had   never  o'ershadowed   my  brow; 


You'll  Weep  when  I  am  Dead.  131 

Bright    fell    the    sunlight   of   sweet    peace    around 

me — 

Where,   O    thou  fickle   one!    where    is   it  now? 

Gone !   like   the  light   on   the  verge  of  the   ocean, 

Raised    by  false    hands    to    allure    the    doomed 

bark — 

Suddenly  quenched    'mid    the    wild    storm's    com 
motion, 
Leaving  the  wrecked  ones  to  grope  in  the  dark. 

Gay  is  thy  dream,  but  soon  comes  the  dawning, 

When  thou'lt   awaken   to   sorrow   and   shame; 
Wealth    fleeth    like    the  light  mists   of   the    morn 
ing, 

And  there's  no  bubble  more  empty  than  fame. 
Ah!  then,  when  clouds  of  despair  hover  o'er  thee, 

When    the    false    friends    of   thy    summer    have 

fled, 
My  mournful  shade  will,  I  know,  flit  before  thee — 

False  to  me  living,  you'll  weep  when  I'm  dead. 


THE     BIBLE. 

BOOK  all   other  books   excelling, 

Man's   best   earthly   friend   and   guide, 
Spring  from   whose  pure   source  is   welling 

Mercy  in   a  crystal   tide ! 
Heaven's   sweet  light   shines   all   about   thee, 

Making  plain   the   way   to   go ; 
What   were   this   sad   world   without   thee 

But  a  vale  of  sin  and  woe  ? 


God's  own  word!     Life-giving  treasure! 

Solace   when   all   others  fly ! 
Who   thy  wond'rous   wealth   can   measure  ? 

Who   can  set  thy  price  too   high  ? 
Grief-dispeller — heart-consoler — 

Faith-sustainer — sorrow's   bane — 


The  Bible.  133 

Death-destroyer — sin-controller — 
Soul-enlivener — foe  to  pain  ! 

Spirit-stirrer — vision-brightener — 

Sin-expeller — sick   soul's   cure — 
Strife-allayer — burden-lightener — 

All-wise  teacher — refuge   sure  ! 
Heavenly  mentor — soul-wealth  bringer — 

Sinner's  heart's  ease — heaven's  chart — 
All  in   all — salvation-singer — 

Balm  to  every  broken  heart ! 

Holy  Book!     How  all  should  love  it! 

How  its  words  refresh  the  soul ! 
Nothing  earthly  is   above  it — 

'Tis  God's  light  from  pole  to  pole. 
Beauties  ever  new  discerning 

As   I   con  its   pages  o'er, 
Let  my  soul  have  but  one  yearning — 

How  to  prize  and  love  it  more ! 


THE    POWER    OF    STEAM. 

OH!  be  my  theme  the  power  of  steam — 

'Tis  greater  than  sword  or  pen; 
For  it  furnishes  bread,  and  raiment  and  bed, 

For  millions  of   toiling  men. 
Day  after  day  it  puffs  away, 

Alike  in  calm  or  storm, 
And   mortals   gaze   in   mute  amaze 

At  what  it  can  perform. 

It  winnows,  it  plows,   it  heads,  it  blows, 

It  cuts,  it  slits,  it  dresses, 
It  stamps,  it  planes,  it  digs,  it  drains, 

It  condenses,  collects,   and  presses. 
It  forges,  it  rolls,  it  melts,  it  moulds, 

It  files,   it   hammers,   it   rasps, 


The  Power  of  Steam.  135 

It  punches,  it  beats,  it  cooks,  it  heats, 
Releases  and  tightly  grasps. 

It  propels,  it  rows,  it  warps,   it  tows, 

It  pulls,   it   carries,   it  scatters, 
It  pushes,   it   draws,   it   gouges,   it   bores, 

It  polishes,   breaks,  and  batters. 
It  lowers,  it  lifts,   it   grinds,   it   sifts, 

It  washes,   it   smooths,   it  crushes, 
It  picks,   it   hews,   it  prints   the  news, 

It  rivets,  it  sweeps,  it  brushes. 

It  sculls,  it  screws,  it  mends,  it  glues, 

It  pumps,   it  irrigates, 
It  sews,   it  drills,   it  levels   hills, 

Shuts,   opens,   and   elevates. 
It  extracts,   confines,   it  marks   out  lines, 

It  thrashes,   it  separates, 
It  mixes,  it  kneads,  it  drives,   it  leads, 

It  chisels,  it  excavates. 


136  The  Power  of  Steam. 

It  stamps,   it  turns,   it   hatches,   it   churns, 

It  mortises,   saws,   and   shaves, 
It  bolts,  it   brings,   it   lends   us   wings, 

It  fights  the   winds   and   waves. 
It  scutches,   it   cards,   advances,   retards, 

It  spins,   it   twists,    it   weaves, 
It  coins,   it   shears,   tears   down,   uprears, 

Discharges  and  receives. 

Then  be  my  theme  the  power  of   steam — 

'Tis   greater  than  sword   or  pen ; 
For  it  furnishes  bread,   and  raiment  and  bed, 

For  millions  of   toiling  men. 
Day  after  day  it  pufis   away, 

Alike  in   calm   or  storm, 
And  mortals  gaze  in   mute  amaze, 

At  what  it  can  perform. 


THE    WAIL    OF    THE    BETRAYED. 

COME,  night,   sad  night,   and  let  me   hide 

My   wretchedness   in   thee ! 
Nurse  in  thy   gloom   my   woman's   pride, 

My  heart's   deep   agony ! 
Thy  sombre   shadows   suit  me  well, 

My  trouble   and   unrest 
Are  suited  to  thy  darksome  spell — 

'Tis  night  within  my  breast.  ' 

The  flowers  that  bloom  at  early  morn 

To  some  may  beauteous  be, 
But  those  that  ope  at  night's  approach 

Are  dearer  far  to   me. 
The  first  like  sunshine  friends  may  smile 

In  fortune's  happy  light, 


138  The   Wail  of  the  Betrayed. 

The  latter  will  our  griefs  beguile 
In   sorrow's   gloomy  night. 

Though  bright   the   glorious   orb   of  day, 

It  has   no   charm   for  me; 
I   would  not   have   a   single   ray 

Shine   on   my  misery. 
Like   the   crushed   flower   upon   the   plain, 

Dust-covered   from   the   sight, 
So   would   I   hide   my  loathsome  stain 

In  everlasting  night. 

I  love  the  dark-robed  night,  for  she 

Shares  all  my  bitter  grief; 
She  has  a  sigh  in  every  breeze, 

A  tear   on   every  leaf; 
And  while  the  moon  looks   sadly  down, 

The  stars  shed,  as  they  glow, 
A  ray  of   sorrowing  light  that  seems 

Like  sympathetic   woe. 


THE    DIFFERENCE. 

A  MAIDEN   who  spent   the  weary  hours 
In   going  from   house  to   house   with   flowers, 
Stopped   at  a  gorgeous   mansion,  where 
She  spread  to   view   her   bouquets  rare. 
Wan  was  her  look  and   dim  her  eye. 
And  as   she  marked   the   passers-by, 
Her  youthful  bosom  seemed  to  be 
The  dwelling-place  of  misery. 

A  lady  from   out   the  mansion   came, 

A  richly-costumed,   pompous   dame, 

Whose  look  of  vain   and  haughty   pride 

The  flower-vender  terrified. 

She  viewed  the  poor  girl's   bright-hued   store, 

And  turned   the  bouquets   o'er  and   o'er, 


140  The  Difference. 

Then   asked   the  price,   demurred,   and  then 
In   the   rich   mansion   went    again. 

The   maiden,   footsore,    sad,   and  weak, 
Wiped   off  the  tear   that   gemmed   her  cheek, 
And   then   again   she   passed   along 
Amid   the   city's   giddy   throng. 
At   length   a  bright-eyed   working   girl, 
With   ringing  laugh   and   sunny   curl, 
Approached   her,  and   in   merry   sport 
A  bunch   of  her  sweet   flowers   bought. 

But   as  the   girl  the  money   took, 
The  buyer   marked   her  wretched   look, 
And  kindly   sought   the   cause   to   know 
Why  her  young   heart  was   touched   with  woe. 
The   girl   replied,  with   tearful   eyes, 
"At  home   my   aged   mother  lies; 
She's   ill,   alone,   and   should   be   nursed, 
But   I   must   sell   my   flowers   first." 


The  Difference.  141 

The   shop-girl   paused   and   heaved   a  sigh, 

A  tear  was   in   her  clear  blue   eye ; 

She'd  saved   a  sum   to   buy   a  shawl; 

But   "Here!"   she   cried,   "I'll  take   them   all! 

My  mother's   dead,   and   doubtless   she 

Is  looking  now   from   heaven   at   me, 

And  she  will   smile — I   know  she  will — 

To  see  me  hug  her  precepts  still." 


HE    DID    NOT    READ    THE    NEWS. 

ONE   summer's   morn   to   Gotham   came 

A  weary  wight,   John   Smith   by   name, 

Who   traveled  hither  from   the   West 

The  profit   of  fair  trade   to   test. 

His   form   was  bony,   lank,   and   tall, 

His   clothes   were   poor,   his   means  were   small. 

A  man   he   was   of  narrow   views 

Who  did  not  care  to  read  the  news. 

John   entertained,   'twixt   you   and   me, 

Queer  notions   of  economy. 

At  home  he   drank,   and   chewed — would   go 

To  see   the   traveling   circus   show — 

Would   puff  his   cash   away   in   vapor, 

But   couldn't   afford   to   take   a   paper. 


He  did  not  Read  the  News.  143 

Of  fresh   events   he   held   no   views, 
Because   he   didn't  read   the   news. 

Scarce  had  he   got   the   city   in, 

Ere  his   misfortunes   did   begin ; 

He  sold   his   cattle,  got   the   cash, 

And   then  resolved   to   cut   a   dash. 

He   started   off  without   delay, 

And,   whistling,   sauntered   down   Broadway, 

To   take   an  independent   cruise, 

He   didn't  care   to   read   the   news. 

"Say,   Johnny!"   cried  a   voice,   "look   here!" 
John   turned  and  saw   a  stranger  near. 

"  Why,   don't  you   know   me,  Cousin   John  ?" 
The   man — a  well-dressed  youth — went  on. 

"  Why,    I   knew  you   at   once,   right   well ! 
Come,   go   with   me   to   my   hotel !" 
John   went — he   couldn't  see   the   ruse — 
Oh !    if  he   had   but   read   the   news ! 


r44  He  did  not  Read  the  News. 

Np   one   will   doubt   us   when   we   say 
John's   cousin   was    enriched   that   day, 
While   hapless  John,   of  sense  bereft, 
Had   only   half  his   money   left. 
"  Gosh !"   cried  the   dupe,  with   rage   and   grief, 
"  A   fellow   dressed   like   that,   a  thief ! 
I  swan !     'twould   give   a  saint   the   blues ! 
Oh!   don't   I   wish   I'd  read   the   news!" 

Deploring  his   unhappy  fate, 

He   to   a   drinking  shop   went   straight 

His   sorrows   in   a   glass   to   drown ; 

And   when   he'd   gulped   the  liquor   down, 

At  /once   his    brain   began   to   spin, 

For  what  he   swallowed   drugged   had  been, 

And  soon  his   senses  John   did  lose. 

Poor   dupe !    He   hadn't  read   the   news. 

Then   many   a  low-browed   villain   came, 
Considering  John   Smith   fair   game. 


He  did  not  Read  the  News.  145 

They   plucked  him   bare,  and   not   a  cent 

Had   he   when   to   the   Tombs   he   went. 
"  Judge  !"   cried   the   victim,    "  Judge  !   look   here ! 

I've  lost  five  hundred   dollars   clear ! 

I   hope  your  aid  you  won't   refuse." 
"  John,"   said  the  justice,   "  read   the  news !" 

A  sharp-eyed   newsboy   standing  near 
Cried,    "Johnny,   walk   off  on   your  ear! 
Don't   grumble   'cause   you've   lost  your  pelf, 
For   now  you  know   how   'tis   yourself! 
You're  fortunate,   my   old   galoot, 
That  some   one   didn't  bust  your  snoot ! 
I    guess  you're   one   o'   them   foo-foos 
Who   never  want  to   read  the  news ! 

"  If  these   cops   wasn't   standin'  by, 
I'd   go   to   work   and  break  your  eye ! 
I'd   like   to   paste   yer  in   the   ear ! 
I'd   like  to   poultice   yer!     D'yer  hear? 


146  He  did  not  Read  the  News. 

I'd   like   to   take   and   warm   yer  jaw, 
I   would,   if  'twasn't   for  the   law ! 
I'm   down   on   these   'ere   country  Jews, 
Too  mean  to  spend  a  cent  for  news  1" 


With   heavy  heart  John   left   the   court, 

And   quickly   he   his  village   sought, 

Where   safe   at  last,   his   friends  flocked  round, 

To  learn   what  fortune  he  had   found. 

John   eyed   them   o'er  and   o'er   again, 

Then,   with   a  visage   full   of  pain, 

He  said,    "  Friends,   if  there's  one  here  who's 

A  goin'   to   travel,   read  the  news! 


"I   never  have   myself,   but  now 
I'll  make  a  solemn,  earnest  vow 
To   go,   ere  speeds   another  day, 
And   a   full   year's   subscription   pay. 


He  did  not  Read  the   News.  147 

I'll  read  the  paper,   every  line, 
If  it  takes  from   six  o'clock  till   ninej 
For  b'lieve  me,   friends,   a  mere  recluse 
Is  he   who  never  reads   the    news." 


BIRDS    WERE    NOT    MADE    IN    VAIN. 

A   FARMER   once, 

A  youthful   dunce, 
Stood   gazing   o'er  a  field 

Of  springing   corn, 

By   blackbirds   shorn 
Of  half  that  it   should   yield. 

Said   he,   "Bright  birds, 

Mark  ye   my    words, 
Your  doom   is   surely   sealed. 


"Ye  have   had  your  share, 

Of  my  produce   rare; 
Ye  have   ranged   my   broad   fields   o'er, 


Birds  were  not  made  in  vain.  149 

And  picked   and  ate 

At  such   a  rate 
That  half  my  crop   or  more 

Has   felt  the  blight, 

Of  your   greedy   bite, 
But  now   your  reign   is   o'er!" 

He   kept   his   word; 
Each  joyous   bird 
That  on  the   morrow   trilled 
His  joyous   song 
The  meads   along 

Was   mercilessly   killed. 
"  Now,"   cried   the  lad, 

With  visage   glad, 
"My  barn   will   sure  be  filled!" 

Time   sped  along, 
The  blackbird's   song 
No   more   was   heard   in   air; 


150  Birds  were  not  made  in  vaiu. 

The   farmer  stood 

In   solemn   mood, 
And  features   full   of  care. 

His   eye   roamed   o'er 

The  fields,   but  saw 
No  vegetation  there. 

On  each   green  leaf 

A  reptile  thief, 
Erst  the  blithe   blackbird's   prey, 

A  full   meal   had  • 

The   farmer  lad 
Had  sent   their  scourge   away, 

And   the   poor  wight, 

Possessed  not   quite 
The  blackbird's  power  to  slay. 

He  viewed  the  scene 
With   thoughtful   mien, 


Birds  were  not  made  in   Vain.  151 

His  heart   was   touched   with  pain. 
"  O   bright-winged  birds !" 

He  cried,   "that   words 
Would  bring  ye  back   again ! 

For  now,   in   sooth, 

I   feel   the   truth, 
Birds   were  not   made  in   vain !" 


THE    KERNEL    AND    THE    NUT. 

"  HE  who  would   eat   the  kernel   must   not  complain   be 
cause   obliged   to  crack   the  nut." — Old  Saying. 
\ 

YE  who   in   this   changeful   life 
Not   a  ray   of  joy   can   see, 
Ye  who   foster  care   and  strife, 
Never  from   excitement   free; 
Ye  who   never  seek   for  peace, 
Hoping  it   will   seek  for  you, 
Daily   will   your   woes   increase, 

And   you'll   find   this   maxim   true: 
Earthly  joys   and  joys   supernal 

From   the  sluggard   mind   are   shut; 
If  you   wish   to    taste   the  kernel, 
First   you'll   have   to   crack   the   nut. 


The  Kernel  and  the  Nut.  153 

Life's   stream   seldom   smoothly  flows, 

And   at   times   we're   forced  to  mourn; 
But  who   would   reject   the  rose 

Even  though   it   has  its   thorn  ? 
By  hard  labor  we   may  seize 

Pleasure  from   the   lap   of  pain, 
If  we  idly   take   our   ease, 

We   shall   look   for  joy   in   vain. 
Earthly  joys   and  joys   supernal 

From   the  sluggard   mind    are   shut; 
If  you  wish   to   taste   the   kernel, 
First  you'll  have  to  crack  the  nut. 


Should  misfortune   weigh   you  down, 
Never  yield   to   dark   despair; 

I 

Take   the   cross  and  win   the  crown, 
Toil  for  good   and  laugh  at   care. 

Resolutely  strive  and   plan, 
Inactivity   is   vain, 


154  The  Kernel  and  the  Nut. 

What   would  pleasure  be   to   man 

If  he   never   tasted   pain  ? 
Earthly  joys   and  joys   supernal 

From   the   sluggard   mind   are   shut; 
If  you   wish   to   taste   the  kernel, 
First  you'll   have   to   crack   the   nut 


HAVE    CHARITY. 

THROUGH  the  great  sin-blasted  city 

Toils  a  homeless  little  one, 
Not  a  friend  to   soothe   or  pity, 

Not   a  bed   to   lie  upon; 
Ragged,   dirty,   bruised,   and  bleeding, 

Subject  still   to  kick   and   curse, 
Schooled  in  sin   and  sadly  needing 

Aid  from   Christian  tongue   and  purse. 


But  the  rich  and  gay  pass   by  her, 

Full    of  vanity  and  pride, 
And  a  pittance   they   deny  her, 

As   they  pull   their  skirts   aside. 
Then  a  sullen   mood  comes   o'er  her, 

Reckless  she  of  woe  or  weal, 


156  Have   Charity. 

Death   from   hunger   is   before   her — 
She   must   either  starve    or  steal. 

She   does  steal ;   and   who   can   blame   her  ? 

Hunger-pangs   her  vitals   gnaw, 
None   endeavors   to   reclaim  her, 

And   she  violates   the   law. 
Then   the   pampered   child   of  fashion, 

Who  refused  to   give   relief, 
Cries,   with   well-affected   passion, 

"Out  upon   the   little   thief!" 

Censors   full   of  world-wise   schooling, 

Cease  to  censure  and  deplore  ; 
When   the   girl   transgressed  man's  ruling, 

She  obeyed  a   higher  law. 
Take  her  place,   feel   her   temptation — 

Starved,   unhoused,  no   succor   nigh — 
And,   though   sure   of  reprobation, 

Ye   would   steal   ere   ye    would   die! 


STARVATION. 

AT  the   close   of  a  bitter  cold   day, 

When  the   snow   on   the   frozen  ground   lay, 

A  poor  woman's   child, 

With   a  face   wan   and  mild, 
In   a   garret   was   passing   away. 
Gaunt   hunger, 
Dread  hunger, 
Had   stolen   the  bloom   from  his   cheek, 

And  his   mother  sat   there, 

With   a  look   of  despair, 
To  catch   what  her  darling  might  speak. 

"  Come  closer,  dear  mother,"  he  said, 
"And   lay  your  soft  hand   on   my  head, 
And  tell   me   once  more 
Of  that  other  bright  shore 
Where   we  never  shall   hunger  for  bread." 


1 58  Starvation. 

"  Hush,   darling ! 

Peace,   darling !" 

She  raised  him   to  lull  him   to  rest, 
And  she  brushed   the  soft   hair 
From  his   forehead   so  fair, 
But  he   died   as   he   lay   on   her  breast 

The  morning  broke  joyous  and  clear, 
'Twas  the  first   of  the   opening  year; 

But   the   shouts   of  gay  boys, 

And  the   cannon's  rude   noise, 
Fell  unheard  on  that  poor  mother's  ear. 
Oh!    hear   it! 
Oh!    heed  it! 
Ye   wealthy,   well   clothed,   and   well   fed, 

In  that  season   of  joy 

A  mother  and  her   boy 
Had  perished  for  the  want  of  bread. 


THE    HERO    SAILOR. 

LIEUTENANT  W.  LEWIS  HERNDON,  U.  S.  N.,  late  com 
mander  of  the  U.  S.  Mail  Steamship  Central  America, 
was  lost  at  sea  September  I2th,  1857,  by  which  disaster 
326  souls  perished,  including  Captain  Herndon,  and  over 
$2,000,000  of  treasure  was  lost. 

LOOK  at  his  features,  ye  who  read 

Man's  nature  in   his   face, 
And  tell   me   if  a   single   line 

Ignoble  ye   can   trace. 
Peruse  the   well-marked  lineaments 

As   closely   as   you   can, 
And  say  do  they  not  "  give  the  world 

Assurance  of  a  man"  ? 


No  giant  strength  did  he  possess, 
No  stalwart,   towering   form, 


160  The  Hero  Sailor. 

Yet   with   the   strength   of  Hercules 
He   wrestled   with   the   storm ; 

'Twas  honor  nerved   the   hero's   arm 
And   stirred   his   lion   heart, 

And   taught   him   how,   at   duty's   call, 
With  life   itself  to   part. 

"  There   is   no   hope !    It  can   not  be 

That  he  escaped  the  wreck ! 
For  he  would  be  the  last  to  leave 

The  fated   vessel's   deck !'' 
Thus   spoke,   and   truly   spoke, 

The   gallant  sailor's   noble   wife; 
She  knew  to  keep  his  honor  whole 

He'd  sacrifice   his   life. 

Weep   for  his   fate,   ye  maidens, 
Wives,   and   mothers   of  the   land ! 

On   history's  page   eternally 
The   glorious   truth   shall   stand, 


The  Hero  Sailor.  161 

That   in   that  fearful  hour  of  death 

Upon   the  .  ocean   wild, 
Of  all  on  board   there   was   not  lost 

A  woman   or   a   child. 

'Twas  nobly   done,    O    Herndon ! 

And   thy   name   shall   ever  be 
In   manhood's  lexicon   a  word 

Expressing   chivalry. 
Well   may   the   Old   Dominion, 

Who   gave   us   Washington, 
And   many   other  noble   names, 

Be  proud  of  such   a  son. 

With   placid  brow   the  brave   man  saw 

The  helpless   ones   depart, 
And   then   a  heavy  load   of  care 

Seemed  lifted  from  his   heart. 
He  viewed   them   as   they  left   the  ship 

Tossed   on   the  billows   wild, 


1 62  The  Hero  Sailor. 

Then   from   his   lip   the   sentence   broke, 
"God   help   my  wife   and   child!" 

When   the   ill-fated   ship   went   down, 

Of  all   that   luckless   band 
Alone   her  brave   commander   stood, 

A   rocket   in   his   hand. 
To   the  last   gasp   he   clung  to   her, 

And   then,   the   struggle   o'er, 
He   calmly   closed   his   eyes   in   death, 

And   sank  to   rise   no   more. 

Calm  be  thy  rest,   O  noble  heart! 

Upon   thy  ocean  bed; 
Than   thine   there  is   no   worthier  name 

Among   the   gallant   dead. 
Thy   fate  was   mournful,   but   the   world 

Shall  speak   thy   virtues  rare, 
While   God-like  truth   exists,    and  men 

Are   brave   and   women   fair. 


PEACE,    BE    STILL! 

LIKE   a  vast   caldron   seemed   the   sea! 

On   sped  the   gallant   bark ! 
Like   a   caged   ocean   bird   set   free 

Upon   the  waters   dark. 
Shrieking,  the   storm-fiend   hurried   by, 

Speaking   of  woe   and   wreck  ; 
But   'bove   his   voice   arose   the  cry, 

"  We  perish,   Lord,   awake !" 

O   wondrous   change !    O   heavenly  balm ! 

Borne   on   the   storm-filled   air, 
A   sweet,   low   voice,   fell  like   a  charm 

Upon   each   ravished   ear. 
It  was   the   Master — "  Peace,   be  still !" 

He  said,   and  the   mad  sea 


1 64  Peace,  be  Still! 

At   once,   in   answer   to   his   will, 
Was  all   tranquillity. 

How   sweet  the   thought   when   dangers   crowd 

Around   us   to   appall, 
That   with   firm   trust   we   may   aloud 

Upon   the   Saviour   call! 
How   sweet   the   faith   that   makes   all   bright 

And   leads   us   gently   home, 
Where   dangers   can   no   more   affright, 

And   sorrow   can   not   come. 


WORLD-WEARY. 

WEARY,   weary,   oh!    how   weary 

Is   she   of  the   cold   world's   strife ! 
Dreary,   dreary,   oh !    how   dreary 

Is   the   path   of  her  sad   life ! 
Grim   the   phantoms   that   pursue   her 

Ever,   ever,   night   and   day ! 
Whispering   dark   words   unto   her, 

Chasing  hope   and  faith   away. 

Not  a   trusted  friend   is   near  her, 
In   the   world   she   stands   alone; 

None  to   soothe  her,   none   to   cheer  her, 
Wronged,   uncared   for,   and  unknown. 

Gazes   she   upon   the   water, 

Dazed   her  brain   and   wild  her  eye, 


1 66  World- Weary. 

Breathes  the  prayer  her  mother  taught   her, 
And   then   plunges   in   to   die ! 

Rash   the   deed,   but  judge   her  kindly 

Ye   who   gaze   on   horrified ! 
Had   she   never  loved   so   blindly, 

She   would   never  thus   have   died. 
Raise   her  form,   all  bruised   and   broken, 

Lay  it   gently   'neath   the   sod; 
Let  not   one  harsh  word  be   spoken, 

Leave   her  failings   all   with   God. 


THE    BEGGAR-GIRL'S    COMPLAINT. 

''  OLD   Santa   Glaus  has   come   again !" 

The   rich   man's   children   cry, 
And   health   glows  in  their  ruddy  cheeks 

As   they   run   shouting  by. 
I   do   not   envy   them   their   toys, 

Nor  would   I   check  their   glee  ; 
But  oh !    I   wish  that   Santa   Glaus 

Would  visit   Sue   and  me ! 


They  say  he's   merry,  kind,   and  free; 

But   I    am   very   sure, 
Though   this   may  be   his   character, 

He   does   not  like   the  poor. 
For  if  he   did,   he'd  call   on   them, 

And   give   them   of  his  store, 


1 68  The  Beggar-Gin's  Complaint. 

Instead   of  striding   coldly   on 
Past   every  poor  man's   door. 

I   do   not   want   his   pretty   toys, 

His   candies   or   his   fruits; 
I'd  rather   have,   by   far,   a   frock 

Or  pair   of  winter   boots, 
Or  a  nice   warm   stove   to   sit  by, 

Or  a  bonnet   for  the   street, 
Or   a   pair   of  woolen   stockings, 

Or   a   loaf  of  bread   to   eat. 

Oh !    if  /  were   old   Santa   Glaus, 

I    know   what   I    would   do; 
I'd   visit   rich   men's   houses, 

But   I'd   visit  poor  homes   too. 
And   if  I   blessed   the   rich   man's   child 

With   toys   and   dainties   sweet, 
I'd   give   the   poor   warm   clothes   to   wear, 

And   food  enough   to  eat 


The  Beggar- Girl's  Complaint.  169 

I'd   go   to   every   lonely   hut, 

And   every   palace   grand, 
And   scatter  presents   everywhere 

With   an   unsparing   hand. 
And    Christmas   morning,   when   the   bells 

Gave   out   a  joyful   sound, 
Not   one  sad   face   or  bleeding  heart 

Should   in   the   world   be   found. 

Oh !    if  I   were   old   Santa   Claus, 

I'd   make   all  sad  homes   bright; 
Boys   should  not   swear,   and  lie,   and   steal  j 

Nor   parents   drink   and   fight ; 
Nor  should   poor   homeless   wanderers 

Be   treated   cruelly, 
While  plodding  through  the  bleak,  dark   streets, 

Like  little   Sue   and  me. 

But   I   am  not  old   Santa   Claus ; 
I'm   but   a   beggar-girl, 


i  jo  The  Beggar-Girl's  GDI  up  la  int. 

Who's   buffeted   and   kicked   about, 

In   the   great   city's   whirl. 
Not   one  kind   voice   addresses   me, 

None   heed   the   pangs   I    feel, 
And   so   to   keep   myself  alive 

I  have  to  beg  and  steal. 

O   men!   who   b'lieve   that   Christ   the   Lord 

Was   poor  while   on   the   earth, 
Steel  not  your  hearts   against   us 

On   the   morning   of  his   birth; 
But   as   your   well-clad  little   ones 

Throng  round   you   in   their   glee, 
Give   one  kind   thought   to   such  poor  waifs 

As  little   Sue   and  me. 


ELSIE'S    DEATH. 

"  OUT  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings  hast  Thou 
ordained  strength." — PSALM  8  :  2. 

AN  infant  form  lay   stark  and    cold, 

In   its  last  sad  habit   drest, 
But  the   smile   on   its   angel   features   told 

How  calm  it  had  sunk   to  rest. 
And  tears  down  its  mother's  pale  cheek  rolled, 
As   she  kissed  her  darling,   stark  and  cold. 


A  little   girl — the   dead   one's   twin — 

Stood   gazing   on   the   scene; 
She  nothing  knew  of   death   or  sin, 

And  wondered   what   could  mean 
Her   mother's   lamentations   loud 
While   o'er  her  darling's   corse   she   bowea. 


172  ElsU's  Death. 

"  What   ails   my   little   sister   dear  ? 

Sweet  Vnamma,    tell   me,   pray. 
I've   watched   her  lying  silent   here 

Throughout   the   livelong   day. 
She   does   not   seem   to   feel  or   hear — 
What   ails   my   sister,   mamma   dear?" 

"  She's   dead,   my   child ;   your  sister's    dead- 
She   can    not   play   again; 
Her  spirit   has   forever  fled 

From   grief,   and   sin,   and   pain. 
And   yet,   O    God!   my   heart   will   break 
When   my  last  look   at    her   I    take !" 

"  Mamma,   have   you   not   often   said 

That  when  good  people  die, 
They  go  where  no  more  tears  are  shed — 

With  God,  beyond  the  sky? 
I  love  my  sister,  mamma  dear, 
But  would  not,  could  I,  keep  her  here. 


Elsie's  Death.  173 

"  For   Elsie,    I   am   sure,   is   there — 

So,   mamma,   let   us  die; 
And   to   her  in   that   home   so   fair 

Together  let   us   fly! 
I'm   very   sure,   mamma,    that  she 
Is  watching  now  for  you   and  me  /" 

"  I   thank   thee,    God !"   the   mother  cried , 

"  Now   I    can   bear  my   loss. 

i 

Come,   kneel,   sweet   one,   with   me  beside 

Your  little   sister's   corse; 
Raise   up   your  hands,   my   precious   one, 
And  pray,   '  Thy   will,   not  mine,   be    done !'  " 


THE    OLD    KNICKERBOCKER'S    SONG. 

GIVE   me   the   good   old   days   again, 
When   hearts   were   true   and   manners  plain ; 
When   boys   were   boys   till  fully   grown, 
And  baby  belles  were  never  known; 
When   doctors'   bills   were   light    and  few, 
And   lawyers   had   not   much   to   do; 
When   honest   toil   was   well  repaid, 
And  theft  had  not  become  a  trade. 

Give  me  the  good  old  days  again, 
When   cider   was   not   called   champagne, 
And  round   the  fire  in   wintry   weather, 
Nuts   and   dry  jokes   were   cracked  together; 
When   girls   their  lovers   battled   for 
With   seeds  from  juicy   apple's   core, 


The  Old  Knickerbocker's  Song.  175 

While   mam   and  dad  looked   on   with   glee, 
Well  pleased  their  merriment  to   see. 

Give  me   the   good   old  days   again, 
When   only   healthy   stock   was   slain; 
When   flour  was   pure,   and   milk  was   sweet, 
And   sausages   were   fit   to   eat; 
When   children   early   went   to   bed, 
And   ate   no   sugar   on   their  bread ; 
When  lard   was  not   turned  into   butter, 
And   tradesmen   only   truth  would  utter. 

Give   me   the   good   old   days   again, 
When   women   were  not  proud  and  vain; 
When   fashion   did  not  sense   outrun, 
And  tailors   had  no   need  to   dun; 
When  wealthy   parents   were  not    fools, 
And   common   sense  was   taught  in   schools; 
When  hearts  were  warm  and  friends  were  true, 
And   Satan   had  not  much    to   do. 


176  TJie  Old  Knickerbocker's  Song. 

Give  me   the   good   old   days   again, 
Ere  fraud   and   violence  had   reign; 
When   voters   did   not  look   for  booty, 
And  judges   dared   to   do   their  duty. 
When   patriots   were   not  bought   and   sold, 
But   worked   for   country — not   for   gold; 
When   every   citizen   could   vote 
Without   a   dagger   at  his   throat. 

Give   me   the   good   old   days   again, 
When   our  exchequer  felt  no   drain; 
When  men  in  place,   to   "  grind   their   axes," 
Swelled  not   our  public   debts   and   taxes. 
When   alms-house   keepers   had   some   feeling, 
And  lived  in   clover   without   stealing. 
Alas !   alas !    I   sigh   in   vain 
To   see   those   good   old   days   again. 


THE    FIREMAN'S    DEATH. 

HE    slept,   and    o'er    his   dauntless  brow   a   shade 

of  sorrow   stole, 
As  though   some   scene   of  deep  distress  was  busy 

with   his    soul, 
When    suddenly    the    dread    alarm    came    ringing 

shrill   and   clear, 
Cleaving    the    night    air    till    it    struck    upon    his 

startled   ear. 

He  bounded   up!     His   practiced   eye 
Was   turned  upon   the  lurid   sky, 
Lit   by   the   flames  which,   mounting  higher, 
Soon   clothed   the   night   in   a  robe   of  fire. 

With  lightning  speed  he    reached    the    scene — oh ! 

what   a  sight   was   there! 
A    mother    stood  amid    the    flames,   and    shrieked 

in   wild   despair! 


178  The  Fireman's  Death. 

Her     arms     around     her     frightened     babe    were 

thrown   with   frenzied   clasp, 
As   though   she   feared  the   fire-fiend  would  tear  it 

from   her  grasp. 

With  helmet  turned,  through   flame  and  smoke 
The   gallant   fellow   fearless   broke; 
He   saved   them   both,   but   ah!   his   life 
Was   lost  in   the   unequal   strife. 

Now    in    sweet    Greenwood's    peaceful    shade  the 

noble   hero   sleeps, 
And   o'er  his   grave    full    many  a  friend    in    silent 

sorrow  weeps, 
A    monument    erected    there    is    pointed    to    with 

pride 
By  those   with   whom  he  oft  has   fought   the   fire, 

side  by   side. 

Sweet  flowers   exhale   their  fragrant  breath 
Where   now   he  calmly   sleeps   in   death, 
And  trees   their  spreading  branches  wave 
Around  his   solemn    Greenwood   grave. 


LINES 

ON   THE   DEATH   OF   A   YOUNG   LADY   WHO   DIED   ONLY 
FOUR   WEEKS   AFTER   MARRIAGE. 

PROUDLY  stood   they  at  the   altar, 
Loving  friends   on   every   side — 

He   a  young  and  joyous  bridegroom, 
She  a  youthful,   blushing  bride. 

Pure  her  soul   as   were   the   flowers 
That  enwreathed  her  virgin   brow — 

Passed   she   like   a  vision   from   us, 

• 
And  she  is   an   angel  now. 

Four  short  weeks   a  bride   was   Carrie, 

Full   of  wedded    happiness, 
Then   we  laid  her  down   to   slumber 

In   her  pure  white  bridal   dress. 


180  Lines. 

Brilliant   was  she   in   her  beauty, 
As   she   took   her  nuptial   vow, 

But  she  was   too   pure   for  earth-life, 
And   she  is   an   angel   now. 

Jesus   wept   o'er  the   departed — 

Even  he   felt   mortal   woe — 
And   when   loved   ones   vanish   from   us, 

Hearts   will  ache   and   tears   will   flow. 
Weep   then,   friends,   and  stricken   husband; 

But   in   meek   submission   bow 
To  the   will   of  God — for,   surely, 

Carrie  is   an   angel  now. 


RELIGION. 

HAIL,   blest    Religion!    safeguard   of  the  free! 
Destroyer  of  foul  vice,    mother   of  purity, 
Thou  white-robed   seraph   at  whom   skeptics  rail — 
Balm   of  the  bleeding  heart,  Religion,  hail ! 
Many  profess   to   own   thy   sacred  flame, 
And  day  by   day   invoke   thy  blessed  name 
In   gorgeous   temples,   built  with  jealous   care ; 
But  let's  look  in   and  see  if  thou   art  there. 


See,   in  yon   cushioned  pew,  with   downcast  look, 
A  man  sits  poring   o'er  a   well-thumbed  book; 
All  richly  dressed  is  he   in   vestments   rare; 
And   as   the   holy   man   pours   forth   his   prayer 
His  face   assumes   a  penitential   air, 
Mingled  somewhat,   methinks,   with   worldly   care. 


1 32  Religion. 

Now   his   pale   countenance   betokens  pain, 
And   tears  are   falling   from   his   eyes   like   rain ! 
He  reads  a   memorandum   book   of  loss  and  gain  ! 
Its   contents   have   convinced  him,   plain   as   day, 
That   some   of  his   dear   cash   has   flown   away. 
He   whispers  her  his   loss,   and,   musing  on    it, 
His   wife  is   grieving   for   her  next   new   bonnet. 

In   a   darksome   corner,    almost   hid   from  view, 
Sits   one  who   has   the   aspect   of  a  Jew. 
He's   dozing  now,   and   now   begins   to   nod, 
And,   sleeping  holds   communion   with   his  god, 
His  gilded   god :   that   man   his   daughter  sold — 
His   only   daughter — for  a   heap   of  gold. 

Now   cast  your  eye   on   yonder  youthful   pair, 
Who   seem    Devotion's  counterpart — how   fair 
And   pure   they   look,   those    lovely   girls ! 
List!   their   religion's   centered   in   their  curls  1 


Religion.  183 

"  My  gracious,   Emma !   look   at   Martha's   hair ! 
How   illy   it's   arranged,   I   declare!" 

But  turn   we   round  our  eyes,   and   gaze   we   now 
Upon   a    Christian,   whose   unclouded   brow 
Speaks    the   tranquillity   that   reigns   within 
His   breast.     He   is   not  free   from   sin — 
(None   are,   though   some   pretend   to   be, 
And   elongate   their   faces   piously; 
They   never   smile — not   they — they'd   sooner   cry, 
And  agonize   £hd   groan,   and   sweat   and   sigh.) 
He  believes   that   every   creature   born   of  woman 
Has  passions,   and   "to    step   aside   is   human." 
He  toiling  earns  his   bread — does   all   he  can 
To  be  what   God  intended   him — a  man. 

'Twould  fill   a  book  to  mention   every  one — 
The  luckless   debtor   and   the   heartless  dun; 
The    widow    poor,    who    scarce    her    bread    can 
earn, 


184  Religion. 

Rising   from   prayer   to   meet   the   landlord   stem ; 
The  beggar,   perishing   through   lack   of  food, 
Doubting  the  policy   of  doing  good, 
And,   losing  every   thought   of  future   weal, 
Goes     forth    from    prayer    constrained    almost    to 
steal. 

Yes,   visit   any   city   church — you'll   find 
Within   its   walls   all   grades  of  human   kind ; 
But  underneath   the  peasant's   humble   roof 
(From   which   the   rich   man   sneering  stands  aloof) 
The   "peace   which   passeth   understanding"   lives — 
That  priceless   peace   which   true   Religion   gives. 
There   Nature  works,   and   from   the   emerald   sod 
Around  the  poor  man's   cottage,   up   to   God 
The    flowers     their     incense     breathe,     as    if     in 

prayer; 

And   every  bird  that   carols   in   the   air, 
And   every  breeze   that   sweeps   the   forest   wild, 
Speaks   of  Religion,    "pure   and   undefiled." 


RAT,  THE   NEWSBOY, 

ON  THE   LATE    FRIGHTFUL   ACCIDENT. 

MY  name    is    Jimmy   Connors,   which    they   calls 

me   Rat,   for   short — 
I'm    fourteen,   weigh   a  hundred     pounds,   likewise 

I'm   fond   of  sport. 
I'm    a    newsboy,   and    a    bootblack,  and   I   carry 

bundles   too — 
In  fact,   I   tackle  any  job   that   I   am  fit  to   do. 


You    ask    about    the    accident    that  happened    at 

the  ferry — 
I'd  rather  talk   of   something    else — it    makes    me 

feel   bad — very. 


1 86  Rat,  the  Newsboy. 

I   can't    drive   it   from    my   mind,   sir,   oh!    it   was 

a   fearful    sight. 
I'm   thinking   of   it    all    day  long    and    dream    of 

it   at  night. 


But   as   you   seem   to   wish    it,   I'll    tackle   it   once 

more, 
And  tell    you,   near    as    possible,    exactly   what    I 

saw. 
Twas   Sunday,  as   you   know,   sir,   and   nearly  one 

o'clock, 
And    I    was    with    my    brother,    a-fishin'    on    the 

dock. 


We  hadn't  been    a-sittin'   on   the  stone    pier  very 

long, 
When    suddintly    we    heard    the    sound    of   steam 

a-blowin'   strong, 


Rat,  the  Newsboy.  187 

And     then     there     came     a     rumblin'     noise,    and 

then   a   crash — a   snorter! 
And   then  my   brother  lost  his   seat   and   tumbled 

in   the   water. 


I   was    dizzy  for    a    minnit,    so    suddint   was    the 

shock, 
And   then    I    stirred    myself   to    help    my  brother 

on  the   dock. 
I   roared   to    see    him   crawlin'    out,   and    then    I 

fell  to   chaffin'; 
But  in  a  minit  more,  you  bet,  I  didn't  feel  like 

laffin'. 


Quicker'n    I    can    tell  it,   there    came    a    rush  o* 

steam, 
But   'bove  the  noise  it  made   I   heard  a  hundred 

people   scream ; 


1 88  Rat,  the  Newsboy. 

My   hair    riz    up,    my    blood    ran    cold,    so    orful 

did   it   sound, 
And   then   a   crowd   of  drownin'   folks   were   strug- 

glin'   all   around ! 


It   wasn't   long    before    I   saw   two    babies   by   me 

float, 
And    then,    like    winkin',    I    threw   off    my   shoes, 

and  vest,   and   coat, 
And    plungin'    in,    I    swam    to   'em,   and    brought 

'em   safe   ashore ; 
And   then   I    hurried  back   agin,    to    try   and   save 

some  more. 


I   came    near    blubberin',   you    bet,   but    'twas    no 

time   for  cryin' 
When   men   and  women,   boys    and   girls,  were   all 

around   us   dyin' ; 


Rat,  the  Newsboy.  189 

And    so    I    labored   with   a   will    till    I   was    tired 

out, 
And    then   I   stopped   awhile    to   rest    myself   and 

look   about. 


And   such   a  sight   I   hope,   sir,   I   shall   never  see 

again  ! 
Some   dead    and    others    dying — some    ravin'   mad 

with   pain  ! 
The    air    was    full    of    screams,    and     oaths,    and 

prayers,    and   sighs,   and   groans — 
Some    had    no     arms    nor    legs — some    had    the 

flesh   torn   from   their  bones! 


I    rested    but  a    minit    when    I    went    to    work 

again, 

For  lookin'   at  such   sights,   you  bet,   went  rather 

'gainst   the  grain. 


190  Rat,  the  Newsboy. 

I'm   nothin'   but  a   boy,   sir,   but    I    did    the    best 

I   could ; 
If  I   had   been   a   man,  I    think   I    might   ha'    did 

some   good.* 

And   now,    in    few   words    as    I    could    I've    told 

you   all   I    saw. 
And   so,   not   wishin'    to   offend,    I    think   I'll    chin 

no   more ; 
I'm   onto   bissiness  now,   you    see,   for    it    is    after 

nine — 
Your    boots     is    very    dirty,    sir — say,    won't     you 

take   a  shine? 

*  It  is  estimated  that  "  Rat  "  saved  at  least  ten  persons. 


WHAT  ARE  THE  SAD   WAVES  SAYING? 

WHAT  are   the   sad   waves   saying 

Evermore, 
As   they   in   ceaseless   playing 

Kiss   the   shore  ? 
They   are   saying, 
In   their  swaying, 

O'er  and   o'er : 

"  On   the   shore   we're   dying — 
Time   is   onward  flying — 
And  life's   waves   are  rolling 
Beyond   man's   controlling 

Evermore !" 

i 

What   are   the   sad  waves   saying 
Evermore, 


192  What  are  the  sad  Waves  saying? 

As   they   in   ceaseless   playing 

Kiss   the   shore  ? 
They   are  saying, 
In   their   swaying, 

O'er   and   o'er : 
"  Joy   has   no    to-morrow, 
Life  is   full   of  sorrow, 
And   the   restless   ocean 
Types   the   soul's   commotion 
Evermore." 

What  are  the   sad   waves   saying 

Evermore, 
As   they  in   ceaseless   playing 

Kiss   the   shore  ? 
They   are   saying, 
In    their   swaying, 

O'er  and   o'er: 
"  O   ye   lovers   walking, 
Fondly,   sweetly   talking 


What  are  the  sad  Waves  saying?  193 

On   the   strand, 
Fervent   vows,   rose-tinted, 
Are  like   lines   imprinted 

On   the   sand." 

What  are   the   sad   waves  saying 

Evermore, 
As   they   in  .  ceaseless   playing 

Kiss   the   shore  ? 
They   are   saying, 
In   their   swaying, 

O'er   and   o'er : 
"  Foolish   boy   or   maiden, 
Dreaming   of  sweet   Aiden 

On   the   shore, 

Time   will  prove  your  treasures 
And  your  keenest   pleasures 

Day-dreams — nothing   more  !" 


TO     THE     BABY. 

CROW,   kick,   and   stretch,   baby  ! 
Though   crowing   be   a  fowl  offense, 
It   can   not   touch   thy   innocence; 
And   though   thy   tiny,    unskilled   ear, 
Like   that   of   noisy   chanticleer, 
No   knowledge  hath   of   time   or  tune 
At   present,   it   will   alter   soon, 
And   you   may   try   a   higher   strain ; 
But   till   such   time   I    say   again, 

Crow,   kick,   and  stretch,   baby ! 

Crow,   kick,   and   stretch,   baby ! 
Though   kicking   may   not   be   genteel 
Except   in   polka,    jig,    or  reel, 
Thou   canst   not  yet   essay    to   dance 
The   latest  hop   brought   o'er   from   France ; 


To  the  Baby.  19 

And  so  thy   feet   should  privileged   be 
To   kick   the   air   right  merrily. 
Till   thou   hast  learned   the   power  of   song, 
And   thy   young  limbs   are   lithe   and  strong, 
Crow,   kick,   and   stretch,   baby! 

Crow,   kick,   and   stretch,   baby ! 
Stretching   was   e'er  the   wisest  plan 
For  helpless   babe   or   grown-up   man. 
Man,   shrinking   'neath   the  frown   of   care, 
Should  stretch   to  keep   his  head  in   air, 
And  babe,   if   he   would   thrive   and   grow, 
Should   stretch   himself  from   top  to   toe. 
Then   till  the   difference   'twixt   the  two 
You  learn,   I'll   tell  thee   what  to   do — 

Crow,    kick,   and   stretch,   baby ! 


LIFE    AND     DEATH. 

How   beautiful   is   life   in   its   bright   morning, 
Ere   the   heart   knoweth   aught   of   care   or   woe, 

Or  the   pure   soul   has   felt   the   first   sad   warning 
That  sin   envelopeth   all   things   below! 

How  beautiful   is   life   when,   crowned   with   roses, 
Fond  youth   by   turns   rejoices,  sighs,  and  loves, 

Or  in   an   ideal   bower   of   bliss   reposes, 

Or  through   the   sunny   vales   of  fancy  roves. 

How  beautiful   is  life,   though   proud   ambition 
Shuts   out   the   light  of  childhood's   happy  years  ! 

Man,   striving  hard   to   better  his   condition. 
Forgets   the   while   his   misery   and   tears. 


Life  and  Death.  197 

How   beautiful   is   life,   e'en  when   advances 

Old   age   to   bend   the    frame  and   dim   the  eye  ! 

The   tottering   pilgrim   backward  ever   glances, 
And   never,   never   is   prepared   to   die. 

But,   oh !    to   me   how   vapid   seems   this   yearning 
To   cling  to   earth   with   all  its   woe   and  pain. 

What   is   there   here   to   quench   this    inward    burn 
ing  ? 
What  is  there   on   this   sordid   earth   to   gain  ? 

How   beautiful   is   death !     How   calm   and  quiet 
The   features   are,   fixed   in   its   sweet   repose. 

The   pulseless   heart — no   sorrow   now   can   try   it — 
'Tis  freed   forever  from   all   earthly   woes. 

How  beautiful  is   death !     That   form  so   lately 
Racked  by   sharp   pain   and   agonized   by   fear, 

Now   wears   a  look   serenely   grand   and   stately, 
While  lying  silent   on   its  sombre   bier. 


198  Life  and  Death. 

How   beautiful   is   death !     All   strife   is   ended, 
Nor   can   ambition,   pride,  nor  black   despair, 

Nor  any   other  ill   that   life   attended, 

Lay   its   rude,   caustic,   envious   finger  there. 

O    life    and    death !    ye   puzzles    to    vain    mortals, 
And  both   so   fair,   viewed   by   philosophy, 

Shall    we,    when    past    the    gloomy    grave's    dark 

portals, 
Rend   the   thick   vail   that   hides   the   mystery  ? 


SPOIL    THE     ROD    AND     SPARE    THE 
CHILD. 

MEN   and   women,   Shakespeare   tells   us, 

Are   but   children   larger   grown ; 
This   is   true   as   truth   can   make   it — 

Few   are   fit   to   run   alone. 
Not   an   adult   soul   among    us 

But  some  folly   has  beguiled; 
Tlien  when   little   ones  are   faulty, 

Spoil  the   rod   and  spare  the   child. 

Anger   only  wakens   anger — 

Love   it   is   that  rules   the   heart ; 

Force  restrains,   but   does   not   conquer, 
Though   the   bitter  tear  may   start. 

If   you'd  reach   an   erring  bosom, 
Trust  to   reason   and  be   mild, 


2oo         Spoil  the  Rod  and  Spare  the  Child. 

Give   not   way   to   brutal   passion — 
Spoil   the  rod   and   spare   the   child. 

• 

If,   with   all   his   boasted   knowledge, 

Man   is   changeable   and   weak, 
Can   he,   with   a   show   of   reason, 

Perfectness   in   childhood   seek  ? 
Oh !    then   gently    deal  with   children, 

If   they  wayward   prove    and   wild, 
Love   will   bring   them   to  submission — 

Spoil   the  rod   and   spare   the   child. 

Never  yet   did   boy   of  spirit 

Feel   the   sharp   lash   to   his   gain ; 
If   by  love  you   can   not  rule   him, 

You   may   lacerate   in   vain. 
Glorious,   bright-eyed,  romping   childhood 

By   each   harsh   blow   is   defiled; 
Oh !  then   treat   the   darlings   gently — 

Spoil   the   rod   and   spare   the   child. 


BE    KIND    TO    YOUR     MOTHER. 

BE   kind   to   your   mother !     Oh !   be  not   ungrate 
ful 

When   age   dims    her  eye,   or  disease   racks  her 
frame ; 

No    fault    in    mankind    shows    more    glaring    and 

hateful, 

Than   that  which   would   lead   us  her  foibles   to 
blame. 

She    has    borne    with    our    follies    in    life's    early 
stage, 

And  should  we  not,  then,  bear  with  hers  in  her 
age? 


2O2  Be  Kind  to  your  Mother. 

Be    kind    to    your   mother !      Has   she    not    stood 

near   you 
When    loathsome    disease    caused    all    others    to 

fly? 
To    comfort,    to    solace,    to    nurse,    and    to    cheer 

you —    . 

Yes,   even   if  called   on,   to   suffer  and   die  ? 
Then   in   her   decline   you   should   never  demur, 
If   you  have   to   labor  and   suffer  for  her. 

Be  kind   to   your  mother !     Be  duteous  and   grate 
ful— 

The  heart's   deepest  rev'rence  and  love   are   her 
due; 

And  if  of  these   natural   claims  you're   neglectful. 
Look    not    for    respect    from    your    children    to 
you. 

Each   unfilial   action   against   you   is  scored, 

And   when   you   grow   old,  you  will   reap  your  re 
ward. 


Be  Kind  to  your  Mother.  203 

Be  kind  to  your  mother ;    for  fast  she  is   failing, 
And  soon  she   will   sink   'neath   the  sad   weight 

of   years, 

And  all  your  regrets  will  then  prove  unavailing — 

Your  actions  can  not  be   erased  by  your  tears. 

Then    guard    well    your    passions,   be    patient    and 

mild — 

Tis    the    least    that    a    mother    expects    from  her 
child. 


WHY    ART    THOU     COLD? 
(DESIGNED   FOR   MUSIC.) 

WHY  art    thou   cold   and   careless   while   I'm   near 
thee? 

Has   thy  vain  heart  proved  recreant   to  me  ? 
Dost    thou    seek    other    eyes    and    lips    to    cheer 
thee? 

And   art   thou   really   anxious   to  be   free  ? 
With   all  my  soul,   then  let   us   kiss   and  sever, 

I  would  not   hold   thee  captive  'gainst   thy  will. 
O   thou   once   wildly  loved !   farewell   forever, 

Thy  voice   will   ne'er   again   my  pulses   thrill. 

Thou  art  false  to  me — another  kneels  before  thee 
To   whisper  love  in   thy  too  willing  ear. 

To  swear  that  he  forever  will  adore  thee — 
I   hope   for   thy  sake   that   he   is   sincere. 


Why  art  thou  Cold?  205 

As   for  myself,   I'm   willing   he   should   woo   thee, 
I'm    willing    thou    shouldst    call     him    all    thine 
own. 

I   would  not  whisper  one  objection   to   thee ; 
I   love  thee  not,   my  heart  has   callous   grown. 

Tis   vain    to  say  that    love,   though    scorned   and 
slighted 

Day   after  day,   will   suffer  and  live  on ; 
By  cold   neglect  the    fondest  love   is   blighted, 

It  lives  not  when  its   aliment   is   gone. 
I    loved    thee  once,  and  would    have    loved    for 
ever, 

Hadst  thou  been  true   and   loyal  unto   me; 
The  spell  is  broken — thou  art   free,   and  never 

Shall  my  proud   heart   deplore  the  loss  of  thee 


TO    MY    SISTER    IN    CALIFORNIA. 

THOU   art  far  away,   my  sister, 

And   we  miss   thee   when   we  meet 
Together,   as   when   thou   wert  here, 

To  hold   communion   sweet ; 
We  miss  thee,   and  another  one — 

Two  seats   are  vacant  now, 
For  one  has   had  the  seal   of  death 

Stamped   on  her  angel  brow. 

Two  months  ago,  two  little  months, 

The  music  of  her  voice 
Would  make  the   dullest   eye  light   up, 

The  saddest  heart  rejoice  ; 
But  now  'tis   hushed   for  aye  in   death, 

Her  frame    lies   'neath   the   sod, 


To  my  Sister  in  California.  207 

And  her   sweet   voice   has  joined   the   choir 
Around  the  throne   of  God. 

And  our  dear  mother  !    oh !   how   well 

She  bears  the  heavy  blow  : 
A  heavenly,   calm   serenity 

Seems  mingled   with  her  woe  ; 
She  merely  says,   "  So   pass   away 

My  children,   one   by   one  ; 
Still,    I   must   humbly   kiss   the   rod — 

Father,   thy  will  be   done  !" 

O   darling  sister !    how  my   soul 

Is  melted  into   tears, 
As  memory  takes   me   back   again 

To  those   thrice   happy  years 
When  all  our  flock  were  gathered  round 

Our  happy,   cheerful  hearth, 
And  not   a  care   was  mingled   with 

Our  ever-rising   mirth. 


208  To  my  Sister  in  California. 

Now   some   are   dead,    and   some,    like    you, 

Have  wandered   far   away, 
And  we   have   only   memory's   voice 

To    cheer   us,   day   by   day ; 
Yet   still   we   hug   the   darling  hope — 

God   grant   it  be  not   vain  ! 
That   we  shall  one   day   hail   the  strayed 

Around   our  hearth   again. 

Oh !    well   do   I   remember  now 

Your  every  word  and   look 
When,   bowed   in   silent   agony, 

Our  last   farewell   we   took; 
My   quivering  lip   and  stammering   tongue 

No   solace   could   impart, 
For   oh!    a  fearful  storm   of  grief 

Was   swelling  in   my  heart. 

Then  every  loving  word  of  thine, 
And   every  action  kind, 


To  my  Sister  in  California.  209 

With   ten-fold   force   came   thronging  back 

Upon   my   anguished   mind. 
As   memory   clings   to  joys   that   fly 

And  leave  the  heart   forlorn, 
So   those  we  love   while   at   our   side 

Seem   dearer   when  they're   gone. 

Best,   kindest  sister,   years   may  roll 

Ere  we  again   can   meet, 
But  thou   art  in   my  heart   of  hearts, 

While   memory  holds   her  seat  ! 
Speed  swiftly,   time,   increase   thy  pace 

Till  the  last  hour  has   flown 
That  keeps  my  sister's   anxious  breast 

From  throbbing  'gainst  my  own. 


CARRIERS'    ADDRESS. 

NEW-YORK,    JANUARY     I,     1854. 

TIME    has    been    called    "  the    cheat    of    human 

bliss," 

Still   we   must  all,   I   think,   agree   in   this — 
That   though  remorseless   in   his   swift    career, 
He  bids   us   all  be   happy  once   a  year. 
And    so    all    might,   were't    not    that    grief    may 

stand 

Beside   the   "cheat"   with   hour-glass   in   hand, 
And   throw   o'er  some   of  us   a   shade   of  woe 
To  check   our  joyous   spirits'   mirthful  flow. 
Thus  many,   since   the   birth   of  '53 
Was   ushered   in  by  mirth   and   minstrelsy, 
Have  by  affliction's  hand  been  made  to  feel 
A  wound   that   time   may   strive   in  vain   to   heal. 


Garners    Address,  21 1 

In   '53  round   many   a   social   hearth, 
Where   happy   hearts   indulged   in    noisy   mirth, 
May   now   be   seen   the   sad   and   silent   room, 
The   scene   of  apathy   and   sombre   gloom. 
Instead   of  mirth-strains,   tears   unbidden   rise 
To   dim   the   lustre   of  once  joy-lit    eyes. 
A   seat   is   vacant — one   loved   form   is   gone — 
A  bud   from   off  the   parent   stem  is   torn — 
One   chord   is   snapt   upon   the   golden   lute — 
The  charm  is  broken — all   the   rest   are   mute. 


But  how  is  this  ?    Egad  !    we  must   confess 
We're   getting   over-grave   in   our  address  ! 
Ye  shades   of  woe,  .perplex   us   not.     Away  ! 
Pray,   what   have   we   to   do   with   you   ta-day  ? 
Avaunt,  ye  monsters  !    off !    begone  !    take  wings  ! 
And  let  us  speak   awhile   of  happier  things  : 
Of  sweet   reunions   and  heart-thrilling   eyes ; 
Of  well-cooked   poultry   and   smoking  pies  ; 


212  Carriers'   Address. 

Of  friends,   long   absent,   met — of  truthful   hearts ; 
Of  puddings,   pastry,    condiments,    and   tarts ; 
Of  happy  little   folks   with  lots   of  toys, 
And   happy   big   folks,   making   lots   of  noise; 
Of  ladies   booking   imaginary   "  calls ;" 
Of  parties,   concerts,   theatres,   and   balls; 
Of  old   men   talking   o'er  their  youthful   tricks, 
And    young    men    ("  fast"    ones)    "  going    it,    like 

bricks." 

And — let   us   see — it   is   in   part   our   charge 
To   say   a   word   about   the   world   at  large. 

Of  England   much   can   not   be   said. 

i 
She   still  preserves   her  mighty   trade, 

And   still   can   boast   the   truest   Queen 
That   ever   on   her   throne    has   been, 
One   who,   howe'er  the   nation   fares, 
Will   keep   it   well   supplied   with   heirs, 
And   who,  a  monarch   though   she   be, 
Finds   time   to   tend   her   family. 


Carriers'   Address.  213 

Oh  !    that   her  lords   and   commons   would 
Something   enact   for   Erin's   good — 
Something   to   stop   the   blight   that   runs 
Like  lightning   'mid   her   famished   sons  ! 
The    Dublin   Crystal   Palace   dome 
Looks   down   upon   how   many   a   home 
Where   haggard   want   and   fell   despair 
A  nation's   misery   declare  ! 
Within   the   walls   of   brilliant   glass 
The   wealth   of  labor,   but   alas  ! 
Without  the   walls,    on    Erin's   soil, 
Is   famishing   the   son   of  toil  ! 
Enough   of  this.     'Tis   now   our   wish 
To   turn   from   Ireland   to   fish, 
(A  scaly   subject,   and   not  new, 
Though   one   of  some  importance   too.) 
For  many   years   the   north-west   coast 
Was   thronged   each   season   by    a   host 
Of  stalwart   fishers,   bronzed   and   brave, 
Who   made  their  living  on   the  wave. 


214  Garners    Address, 

So   far,   so   good.     One   day,   John    Bull, 
Of  beer,   roast   beef,   and   wisdom   full, 
Discovered   that   they  had   no   right 
To   fish.     He   was   mistaken   quite ; 
For  Jonathan,   to  John   Bull's   wonder, 
Sent   out   a   force   to   keep   him   under ; 
And   while   they   talk    the   matter  o'er, 
We   keep   on   fishing,   as   before. 
There   have   been   some   unimportant    other 
Disputes   between   the   child   and   mother, 
But  still  there   is   not  like   to   be 
Any   real   cause   for   enmity. 


Proud  France  still  owns  the  third  Napo 
leon's  sway — 

At  least,  we   heard   she   did,   the   other  day. 

How  soon  the  steamer  may  bring  other 
news — 

A   total   change   of  rulers   and   of  views, 


Carriers'   Address.  215 

My   "uncle's   nephew"   to   grim    Pluto   sent, 
The   election  of  another   President, 
The   restoration   of  the   Bourbon   crown, 
'Mid   fire,  and   flame,   and   pillage,  and   sacked 

town  ; 
How  soon   such  stirring  news   may  come   this 

way, 

Of  course   we   can  not   undertake   to   say — 
There's   no   appearance  of  such   matters   now, 
But  France   is   quick   at   getting   up   a  row. 

Spain,  as   of  old,  imbecile,  vain,  and  proud, 
Still   puts    on    airs,   looks    haughty,   and    talks 

loud  ; 

Treats   Uncle   Sam  with    evident   disdain; 
Threatens     his     children    with     garrote     and 

chain. 
By    turns    she    curses,     prays,     exhorts,     and 

blusters, 
Both   at  our  senators   and   fillibusters ; 


216  Cartiers'  Address. 

She    feels    our    power,    is    conscious    of    her 
weakness, 

And   of  our   magnanimity   and   meekness. 

But  let  us  now  prepare   a  sort   of  lunch — 
Put   all   affairs   of  moment   in   a   bunch, 
Shake   them   all   up   without   regard   to   skill, 
And  let   the  items   come   out   as   they   will. 

Koszta   is   here,   and    relates   without    fear 

How  the  generous,  brave   Ingraham  got   him  clear, 

Through   Turkish   neutrality, 

From   Austrian   brutality — 

An  act   which   will  render  the   captain   most    dear 
In   ev'ry   free  port   he   may   happen   to   steer. 

"The   turbulent   and   turbaned   Turk" 
For   Nicholas   has   cut   out   work, 
And   now  the  bear's  in   such   a  stew 
He   really  knows  not   what   to   do. 


Carriers'   Address.  w      217 

'Twas   he   commenced   the   row,   and   so 
He   can   not   well   "  back   down,"   you   know, 
Without   a  loss   of  power   and   pride 
That   every   nation   would   deride. 
His   bearship   could   afford  to   dance, 
But  for   old   Albion   and   France  ; 
Though   they   are   in   the   way,  and   so 
The   Czar's  face   wears   a  look  of  woe. 


Now,   here's   a  piece   of  glorious   news  : 
A   war   among    the   famed  "  foo-foos" 
Has   broken   out ;    the   Chinese   now, 
We   trust,   will   shortly   cease   to   bow 
The   willing  knee   to   senseless   "Josh," 
When   they   discover   'tis   all   "  bosh ;" 
And  thus   an   opening  will  be   made 
For   Christian  folks   to   push  new  trade. 
Besides,   we   have   a   work   began 
With  jealous-minded,   close  Japan, 


2i8       -  Carriers'    Address. 

Whose   Emperor   has   talked   with    Perry, 
And   treated   him   politely — very. 

We've   got   to   settle  with   Peru 
For  maltreating   a  Yankee  crew. 
For  such   act  no   offense   we   gave  her, 
And   her   guano   will   not   save   her, 
Unless   she   promises   that   she 
Will  never  more   pugnacious  be. 

Science   and   art  still   do   their  part 

To   keep   mankind   in   motion, 
The  march   of  mind   we   yet   may  find 

On  land  and   on   the   ocean : 
Machines  infernal,   improvements  internal, 

Roads,   sewers,   and  canals, 
Fat  cattle  and   hogs,   fast   horses   and   dogs, 

Fine   boys   and   "  bouncing  gals ;" 
Soon   we'll  let  slip   from   "  Mississippi " 

An   iron-horse  terrific, 


Carriers'   Address.  219 

To   whisk   us   all,   both   great   and  small, 
From   this   to   the   Pacific. 


The  fabrics  rare   in   our  World's   Fair 

Show   that   we've   not   been   sleeping ; 
Industry   here,   'tis   very   clear, 

A  harvest   rich   is   reaping. 
"  Vic's"   house   of  glass   may   ours  surpass 

In    size,   but   not   in   beauty; 
With  plastic   hands   our  artisans 

Have   nobly   done   their  duty. 

To  this   free   shore   are   flocking  o'er 

The   oppressed   of  every  nation, 
Who  here   may  sup   from   freedom's   cup, 

Unfearing  molestation. 
Mitchel   and   Meagher   everywhere 

Have   met   a    cordial   greeting, 
And  all  we  heed,   whate'er  their   creed, 

If  freedom   prompts   their   meeting. 


22O  Carriers'    Address. 

From    California   still   arrives 

"  Hull   heaps"   of  golden   ore, 
And  reckless   miners   hold  their  lives 

As   cheaply   as   before. 
Not  satisfied   with   all   the   wealth 

The   gold  land   has   before   her, 
They've     struck     their     tents     and     took     by 
stealth 

A  new   field   in   Sonora. 
Just  think   of  it !    in   less   time   than 

A   "  grizzly"   would   a   cub   lick, 
Walker   on   Mexico   "  shut   pan," 

And   formed  a  new   republic. 

There !    we  have  done. 
May   every   one — 

Boys,   girls,   men,   maids,   and  matrons; 
The  short,   the  tall, 
Each  one  and   all, 

Who   call    themselves   our  patrons — 


Carriers'   Address.  221 

Be   glad   to-day, 
Happy   and   gay, 

And   may   no    cloud   of  sorrow 
Arise   to   mar 
Life's   brilliant   star 

On   any   future   morrow. 
May   every   comfort   wealth   can  bring, 
Every   song   that  joy   can   sing, 
Every  pleasure   without  a   sting — 
In   short,   each   dearly-cherished   thing— 

A  magic  spell 
Weave  round   you   while   time's   on   the   wing, 

And   so   farewell  : 

But   do   not  forget,   as   mirth   takes  you   along, 
You've  been  reading  the  carrier's   annual  song. 


ALONE    AMONG    THE     SHADOWS. 

I'M   alone   among  the   shadows, 

And   I'm   waiting  for  the   light. 
To   chase  away   the   visions 

Of  the   dreary,    weary   night. 
Like   a  sightless   child   deserted 

My  uncertain  way   I    grope — 
I'm   alone   among  the   shadows, 

But   my  soul  is   full   of  hope. 


I'm   alone   among  the   shadows  ; 

But   my   doubts   and   fears   are   past, 
For   I   feel   the   sweet   assurance 

That   the  light   will   come   at   last. 


Alone   among  tne   Shadows.  223 

A  ray   from   hope's   bright  beacon 
Comes   through   the   gloom   to   me — 

I'm   alone   among   the   shadows, 
But  my  heart  is   light   and   free. 

I'm  alone   among  the   shadows ; 

But  I   hear  a  sweet   voice   say, 
"  You   would   not   prize   the   daylight 

If  it   were   always   day." 
And  so   I'll   strive   in   earnest 

To   keep   from   error  free, 
And   He   who  strengthened  the   weak 

Will  surely  comfort  me. 


TO     HATE. 

THOU   baleful,   black-browed,   murderous   thing ! 

Thou   bane   of  human   bliss ! 
Thou   vampire   fiend   of  sombre   wing, 

Whose   loathsome,   lep'rous   kiss 
Blisters   the  lips  it   meets,  and   turns 

Life's   sweets   to  bitterest   gall, 
And  like   a  hungry  fire   burns 

In  souls   that   own   thy  thrall. 


Thank   God,   I  ne'er  have  known  thee  yit, 

Vile   monster  that   thou   art! 
Thou  ne'er  hast   had   and   ne'er   can   get 

A  lodgment  in   my   heart. 


To  Hate.  225 

Though   I   were   doomed  to   feel   the   sting 

Of  enmity's   foul   blow, 
I'd  seek   no   shelter   'neath   thy   wing, 

Thou  minister   of  woe. 


I   can   afford   to   pity   thee, 

And   all   whose   guide   thou   art ; 
For  no   poor  wretch   from   pain   is   free 

While   thou  dost   rule   his   heart. 
I'd  rather  suffer  from   thy   spite 

Than   own   thee   as   my   friend; 
For  love,   thy  master,  will   delight* 

When  thou  hast  reached  thine  end. 


HERE'S    A     HEALTH     TO     THOSE     WHO 
LOVE     US. 

HERE'S   a  health   to   those   who   love   us, 

And   a   smile   for  those   who   hate ; 
Kind   heaven   is   above   us, 

And   we   may   trust   our   fate. 
If  loved   ones   fly   before   us, 

And   those  who   hate,   betray, 
God's   mercy   still   is   o'er   us 

On   sorrow's  darkest   day. 
Then   a  health   to   those   who   love  us, 

And   a  smile  for  those  who   hate, 
Kind  heaven   is   above   us. 

And  we  may   trust   our  fate. 

The  love  that  in   an   hour 

Will   plume   its   wings   and   fly 
Elsewhere   to   try  its   power, 

Is  hardly   worth   a  sigh. 


Here's  a  Health  to  those  who  love  us.       227 

The   hate   that  would   annoy  us 

Is   only  worth   a  smile; 
It  never  can   destroy   us, 

For  heaven   rules  the   while. 
Then   a   health   to   those   who  love   us, 

And  a  smile   for  those   who   hate ; 
Kind  heaven  is   above   us, 

And  we  may   trust   our  fate. 

This  life   is  but   a  bubble, 

'Tis   ended  in   a   day; 
Then   let   us   laugh   at   trouble, 

And   drive   our  cares   away. 
The   world   is   full   of  sorrow, 

But  has   its    pleasures  too  ; 
Then  do  not  trouble  borrow, 

Life's  bright  side  only  view. 
Then   a  health   to   those  who  love  us, 

And  a  smile  for  those   who   hate; 
Kind  heaven  is  above  us, 

And  we   may   trust   our   fate. 


HE'S    TEN    YEARS    OLD    TO-DAY. 

LOOK   at  him   as  he  bounds   along ! 

The   red-cheeked,  bright-eyed  boy ! 
His   well-knit  limbs  so   lithe   and   strong, 

His   shout   so   full   of  joy ! 
School's   not   in   yet — he's   full   of  glee, 

And   ripe   for  any   play ; 
His  little   heart  is   full,   for  he 

Is   ten   years   old   to-day. 

His  roomy   pockets   plethoric 
With   top,   and    cord,   and   ball, 

And  rags,  »and   stones,   and   bits   of  stick, 
And  other  trifles   small. 

The   hour  is   his,   his   mind   is   free, 
So   get   not   in   his   way — 


He's    Ten    Years    Old   To-Day.  229 

Is  he  not  rich  ?   besides,   you   see, 
He's   ten   years   old   to-day. 

He  is   a  prince   among  the   boys 

On   this   his   natal   morn ; 
Above   them   all  you  hear  his  voice, 

Clear  as   a  bugle-horn. 
He  laughs,  he  screams,  he  runs  "like  mad," 

No   colt   could   wilder  play — 
But  prythee   do   not  scold   the  lad, 

He's  ten   years   old   to-day. 

O   happy  boy !   so  free  from  care, 

How  sad  it  is   to   know 
That  time   will  mark  thy  forehead  fair 

With  trouble,   toil,   and   woe! 
But,  haply,  you're  untrammeled  now, 

So   frolic   while   you  may — 
Though   grief  at  last   may  shade  thy  brow 

You're   only   ten   to-day. 


ALL    BORN     IN     OCTOBER. 

AFFECTIONATELY   INSCRIBED   TO   F.    S.    STREET. 

FATHER,   mother,   and   children   three, 
All   members   of  one   family, 
A  curious  thing  indeed  to  see — 
All  born  in  sad   October. 

No  birthday  record  do   they   need ; 
If  they   the   year   and   day  but  heed, 
The  month  is  very  plain   indeed — 
For  each  it  is  October. 

All  came  when  leaves  were  brown  and  sere, 
And  nature's  face  was   dark    and  drear, 
The  saddest  season   of  the  year — 
The  month  of  brown   October. 


All  Born  in    October,  231 

But  may  no   envious   autumn   come 
To   cast   a   shadow   on   their   home, 
And  may  their  lives   be  sunshine  from 
October  to   October. 

Around  the   white   throne   may  they   stand, 
A  still  united,   happy  band, 
When   they   have   reached  the   "  better  land," 
Where   there  is  no   October. 

Father,  mother,  and  children  three, 
All  members   of  one   family, 
A  curious  thing  indeed   to   see — 
All  born  in  sad  October. 


HARD     LUCK. 

I   TOOK  my  place  the   other  day 

On   board   a  ferry-boat, 
And  looked   around,   as  is   my   wont, 

The   passengers   to   note. 
Two   young   mechanics   going   home 

From   work   were   standing  near, 
Whose   colloquy   I    listened   to, 

And  will  repeat  it  here. 


"  O  Jack !"  said   one,   "  the   other   day 
I   fell   against   Tom   Duff, 

And   I   tell   you   I   pitied   him, 
He  looked   so   awful   rough. 

His   toggery   was   all   in   rags, 
No    shoes   were   on   his   feet, 


Hard  Luck.  233 

In   fact,   he   looked   as   hard   a  case 
As   any   on   the  street. 

"  I   asked   about  his  family. 

His  wife,   he   said,   was   dead, 
And   his   two   little   children 

Were   suffering   for  bread. 
He'd  had  no   work   for  nigh   a  month, 

And   gone  was  all  his   pluck ; 
He  never  could   succeed,   because 

He'd  had  such  horrid  luck." 

Jack  listened   to   his   friend's  report, 

And  then  he  heaved   a  sigh, 
And   then   he   said,   "  I   pity  Tom ;  but   Bob, 

'Twixt   you   and   I, 
This  horrid  luck   we  hear   about. 

Unless  I   am   mistaken, 
Instead   of  being   sent   to   us 

Is  often   of  our   makin'. 


234  Hard  Luck. 

"  Now,  Tom  and   I   were  'prentice  boys 

Together,   as   you   know, 
And   he   was   very   quick   to   learn, 

While   I   was   very  slow. 
He   always   could   earn   more    than   nie, 

And   dressed  like   any   buck; 
But  he   could   never  keep   a   cent, 

He   had   such   awful  luck. 

"  He   had  no   one   to   work    for — 

His   wages,   every   cent, 
Were   his — while   I  was   forced  to  pay 

My  widowed  mother's   rent. 
And  yet  so   awful   was  his  luck, 

He  never  had  a  dime, 
And  he  has  borrowed  stamps  from  me 

To  get  beer  many  a  time. 

"  Both   of  us  married  early, 

And  both   got   thrifty   wives; 


Hard  Luck.  235 

There   should  have   been   no  difference 

In   the   current   of  our  lives. 
If  any   thing,   my   expenses 

Were   the  greatest ;   for  you  see 
While  Tom   has   but  two  little   ones, 

Kind  heaven   has  sent   me  three. 

"Tom's  wife  was  young   and  beautiful, 

But   wasn't   very   strong, 
And  being  obliged  to   work   so   hard, 

She  couldn't  stand  it  long. 
She  never  ventured   out  of  doors, 

But  to   her  babies   stuck, 
While  Tom  sat  in  some  drinking-shop 

A-growling  at  his  luckT 

"  Now,   I've  no  reason   to   complain, 

I'm   doing  very   well ; 
Sometimes  indeed   when   work   gives   out 
I   have  an  idle  spell  \ 


236  Hard  Luck. 

But   then    I    always   try   to   keep 

A  stamp   or   two   ahead, 
And  never  yet  have  had   to  hear 

My  babies   cry   for  bread. 

"  I'm  just   as   sorry   for  poor  Tom 

As  you   can  be,   friend  Jack, 
And   I   would  rather  help   him   on 

Than   try   to   set   him  back. 
But   I   have  always   noticed 

When   a  fellow   guzzles  rum, 
And  loafs  about  and  takes  his  ease, 

Hard  luck  is  sure  to  come" 


THE    WILLOW. 

I  LOVE   the  lofty  poplar 

And  the  tall,   majestic   pine, 
I   love  the  sturdy   oak,   round   which 

The   creeping  ivies    twine. 
I   love  the   generous   trees   that   yield 

Kind  nature's  bounteous   store, 
But,   though  it  has   a  mournful  look, 

I  love   the   willow  more. 


Tis  not  because  the  cares  of  life 
Have  steeped  my  soul  in   woe 

That   I   dearly  love   to   gaze   upon 
Its  branches   waving  low. 

No,   'tis  not  that ;   for  while   I   gaze 
It  calls  up   to   my  view 


238  The 

The   sweetest,   brightest,    gayest   hours 
.    My  boyhood   ever  knew. 

'Twas  underneath   a  willow  tree, 

Beside   a  running  stream, 
Where   I   in  childhood,   tired   out, 

Had   many   a  sweet   day-dream 
About   dear   Minnie   Morrison, 

Who   often   played   with   me, 
And  whose  bright   face   and  sunny   curls 

I  even  now  can  see. 

0  glorious   Minnie   Morrison ! 
Full   thirty   years   have   fled 

Since  then,   and  you,   perhaps,   may  now 
Be  sleeping  with  the  dead. 

But  if  you  still  are  on  the  earth, 
Wherever  you  may  be, 

1  know   that   in   your  reveries 
You   sometimes   think   of  me. 


The    Willow.  239 

O  willow!  dear  old  willow, 

Where   are   the   friends   who   played 
With   me  in   happy   childhood 

Beneath   thy   cooling  shade  ? 
Some  dead,   and  some  have   wandered, 

Some  remember  me  no   more, 
But  thou  hast   still   the   same  kind  look 

That  greeted  me  of  yore. 


MEAGHER'S    ESCAPE* 

THERE'S  a  voice    in  the  gale,   speeding  over   the 

waters, 

A  song   of  rejoicing,   a  burden   of  glee, 
A  pean    from   Erin's  brave   sons   and    fair  daugh 
ters, 
"  Old     Ireland's     defender,     young    Meagher,    is 

free !" 
They  could    not   enslave  him;    for    on   her  broad 

pinions 

The   Genius   of  Liberty   day   after   day 
Hovered    over    his    head,   and  from   tyranny's   mi 
nions 
At  length  bore   the  noble-souled  patriot   away. 

*   First  published  under  a  nom  dc  plume  in    1852. 


Meagher's  Escape.  241 

With  honor  he  shook  off  the  shackles  that  bound 

him, 

His   parole   gave   up   ere  he  ventured   his  plan; 
And   then  in    broad   day,   with   his   enemies  round 

him, 
Cried,    "  Now    I    defy    ye !      Take    me,   if   you 

can !" 

But  vain  their  endeavors;  his  steed  like  a  swallow 
Flew  over  the   ground  with   his   rider  so  brave ; 
And  soon  they  found  out  it  was  useless  to  follow, 
For   Meagher  was  safely   afloat   on   the  wave. 


Oh!  how  must   the  news  of  the  captive's  achieve 
ment — 

The   tidings   that   he   had   his  liberty   won — 

Have   chased,   as   the   sun   does  the  mist,   the  be 
reavement 

Of   those    who    stood    round  him    at    Slievena- 
mon! 


242  Meaghet's  Escape. 

How   eyes    must    have    sparkled    and    hearts    must 

have  bounded, 
And    hills    must    have   echoed   with   cheer  upon 

cheer, 

From  the  wild  throbbing  bosoms  that  quickly  sur 
rounded 
The  bonfire   that  blazed   upon   Corrigmoclier ! 

But  it  is  not  his  country   alone   that    rejoices; 

The  republican  host  of  our  own  cherished   land 
In   deep   exultation   are  raising   their  voices, 

And    thronging    to    grasp    the    young    patriot's 

hand. 
"You   are  welcome,"   they   cry,   "to    the    land   of 

the  stranger — 
Thrice  welcome  beneath  our  proud  eagle's  broad 

wing; 

Here   safely  repose   thee,   exempt   from   all   danger, 
Protected   forever  from   tyranny's   sting. 


SHALL    WE    KNOW    THOSE    WHO    LOVE 

US? 

SHALL  we  know  those  who  love  us, 

When   this  transient  life   is   o'er, 
And  we  tread  the  Golden   City 

That  lies   on   the  other   shore  ? 
When  we  shall  reach   the  spirit-land, 

Will  they  to   us   appear 
In   all  their  old,   familiar  guise — 

Just  as  we  knew   them   here? 

When   we  have   cast   this  mortal   off 

For  immortality, 
And  the   glad  soul,   with   eager  flight, 

Speeds   through   the   ether  free, 
Will  it  fly   to   its   blissful   home 

Without  a  taint  of  earth, 


244        Shall  we   know   those   u'/io   love   us  ? 

And   find   its   friends  assembled  there 
To   hail   the   spirit-birth? 

Shall  we  forget  our  misdeeds 

And   our   miseries   for   aye, 
And  only  pleasant   memories   come, 

Throughout   the   endless   day? 
And  shall   our  love,   refined   and  pure, 

Need   no   chastising   rod, 
But  fill   our  souls   with   sweet   content, 

And  lead   us  up   to   God  ? 

O  radiant   hope !    O   solace   sweet ! 

How   glorious   to  be 
From   all   our  earth-born-  phantasies 

For   evermore   set   free ! 
No  longer  passion's   abject   slaves, 

All   tribulation   o'er — 
How  sweet   to   gain   a   refuge   sure 

Where   crief  can   come   no   more ! 


THE    FELON'S    LAST    NIGHT. 

THE   felon  lay  in   his   gloomy   cell, 

His   keeper  sat   close   by; 
The   doomed   wretch   knew,    alas !   too   well, 

That  he  must   surely   die 
Before   another  sun   should   set; 

And  yet   how   strange   that   he 
Should  all  his  dread  of  death  forget, 

And  slumber  tranquilly! 


He  dreamed  of  childhood's   happy   hours — 

He  heard   the  robin   sing, 
And   culled   again   the   sweet  wild   flowers 

That   blossomed   near   the   spring; 
He   saw   his   mother's   look   of  pride, 

And   felt   the   same   sweet  joy 


246  The  Felons   Last  Night. 

As  when  he  frolicked  by  her  side, 
A  sinless,   happy   boy. 

Again  he  lingered   on   the   green, 

And   cast   his   eyes   about 
In   search   of  little   Eveleen, 

When   irksome  school   was   out; 
Again  he  saw  her   sunny   smile, 

Her  artless,   bashful  look, 
And  kissed  her  rosy   cheek   the   while 

They   wandered   by   the  brook. 

The  sleeper's  heart  was  all   aglow 

With  innocent  delight, 
Nor  dreamed  he  that  a  shade  of  woe 

Could   mar  his   vision   bright; 
A   sweet   smile   wreathed  his   haggard  brow; 

A   prayer  his  thin   lips   moved, 
"  O   Father !   thou  hast  blessed  me  now — 

I   love,  and   I   am   loved !" 


The  Felon's  Last  Night.  247 

Ha !   what   a  sound  breaks   on   his   ear ! 

The  solemn   prison  bell 
Rings   out  the   summons   loud   and   clear — 

The   prisoner's   death-knell! 
He  springs   erect !     The  look   of  joy 

Has  vanished   from   his   brow ! 
His   dream   is   o'er;   the   sinless   boy 

Is  a  doomed  felon  now! 

"  Back !  back !"  he  cried,  with  eyes  agleam ; 
"Too  soon  the  bell  they  toll! 
I   can  not   die  with  that  sweet   dream 

Yet  lingering  in   my   soul ! 
Back!   back!     Ere  ye  take  me   away 

Through   yonder  prison  door, 
For  Christ's  sake  grant   me  leave  to  stay 

On  earth  one  hour  more !" 

In  vain  the  felon  shrieks  aloud, 
And  struggles  to  get  free; 


248  The   Felon's  Last  Night. 

They   drag   him   forth   before   the   crowd 

Around   the   gallows-tree. 
The   fatal  noose   is  round   his  neck; 

A  priest   is   standing  near, 
Beseeching   him   the   cross   to   take, 

And   banish   every  fear. 


A   moment's  pause.     The  felon  stands 

Like   one  in   dreadful   doubt; 
Then   clinching  fast  his  bony  hands, 

Defiantly  shrieks   out : 
"  Begone,   vile  priest !     I   spit  at   thee ! 

I   will  not  kiss  the  rod ! 
I  b'lieve  not  in  thy  mummery! 

Away !  there  is  no   God ! 


"You  say  I'm  doom'd!    Ha!    ha!    'tis  well! 
No   other  world   I   fear — 


The  Felon's  Last  Night.  249 

I   can  not  meet   a  fiercer  hell 

Than   I  have   suffered  here!" 
The  cap   was  drawn,  the   trap   was   sprung, 

And  on  the   gallows-tree 
The  felon's  lifeless  body  swung; 

His  soul  from  earth  was  free. 


WHAT    IS    LIFE? 

To  eat,  to   drink,  to  strive  for  fame, 

To   lay  up   heaps   of  gold; 
To  pamper  self;   to  toy   with   shame 

From   youth   till   we   are   old; 
To   tread  the  humdrum   round   of   trade, 

With   disappointments  rife; 
Now  filled   with  hope,  and  now   dismayed, 

Oh!   tell  me,   is  this  life? 

Ah!   no;   'tis  but  the   grosser  part — 

A  fraction   of  the   whole; 
The  life   which  satisfies   the  heart 

Is  centred   in   the   soul. 
There  lie   the  sanctities   that  chase 

Away   dark   error's   mist ; 


What  is   Life?  251 

That  fill   us   with   an   inward   grace, 
And  fit  us  to  exist. 


Deep  in  the  soul  love  rears  his  throne; 

There  truth   and   faith   abide; 
And  where   they  rule,   ill   is   unknown, 

And  life   is   glorified. 
The  outer  world,   though   fair  to   see, 

Is  full   of  hate   and   strife; 
And  oh!   how  wretched  must  he  be 

Who  has  no  inner  life! 


THE     LASS     OF     CLOVER     LANE. 

SWEET   are   the   flowers   which   bloom   around 

The   cot   where   I    was   born, 
And   sweet  the  melody   of  birds 

That   greet   the   early   morn. 
Sweet   are  the   daisies  and   blue-bells 

That   gem   the   verdant  plain, 
But  sweeter  than  all  these  to  me, 

My  lass  of  Clover  lane. 

There  is  no   perfume   like    her  breath, 

Nor   do   the  birds   excel 
The  music  of  her  merry  laugh, 

Clear  as   a  silver  bell, 
Pure   as   a  daisy   washed   with   dew — 

As  modest,  neat  and  plain — 


The  L-.iss   of   Clove r  Lane.  253 

The   queen   of  love   and   beauty   is 
My   lass   of  Clover   Lane. 

The  city  belle  whose  cheeks  are  red 

With   artificial   bloom, 
And   whose  rich   gems   flash  brilliantly 

In   ball   or   concert-room, 
May  please   the  pampered   man   of  wealth, 

Conceited,   proud,   and  vain; 
But   I   will   pay   my   homage   to 

The  lass  of  Clover   Lane, 

My  darling  has  no  jewels  rare, 

Nor  can   she  boast   of  wealth ; 
But   she  is  rich  in   innocence,   sweet   peace, 

And  robust   health. 
She  weeps  with  those   oppressed   by   woe, 

And   at  the   couch  of  pain 
She  is   an   angel  minister, 

*My  lass  of  Clover  Lane. 


254  The  Lass  of  Clover  Lane. 

So   natural,   so   beautiful, 

So   free   from   guile   or   art — 
Oh!    joy  to   press  her  to   my   breast, 

And  wear  her  in   my  heart. 
Should   death   my  angel   snatch   from   me, 

I'd   never   smile   again ; 
My  heart   would   wither   should   it  lose 

The  lass  of  Clover   Lane. 


THE    HORSE. 

OF   all  the  lower  animals 

That  humbly   tread  the   earth 
To   work  for  careless,   thankless   man, 

The   horse  has   greatest   worth. 
A  very   giant   in   his   strength, 

And   yet   withal   so   mild, 
That  he  will  readily   obey 

An  invalid  or  child. 

How  patient  and  how  tractable, 

How  willing  he  to  toil — 
A  very  slave  to  man,  and  yet 

The  monarch  of  the  soil. 
The  meanest  steed  is  worth  regard, 

But  beautiful  to   see 


256  The    Horse. 

Is  one  of  choicest  lineage 
And  perfect  symmetry. 

No   pen   can  do  him  justice, 

And  e'en   the  limner's  art 
Will  fail  a  perfect  idea 

Of  the  racer  to   impart. 
His  form   may  be   depicted, 

But   the  fire  in   his   eye, 
The   life  that   animates   his   frame, 

These,    every   art   defy. 

Height,   sixteen   hands — his   color,   black- 

An  arched  neck   full   and   strong, 
A  pair   of  eyes   that   shine  like   stars, 

Mane,   tail,   and  foretop,   long. 
Ears   like   a  fox's,   small   and   sharp, 

With   nostrils   large   and   thin, 
And  showing,   when   expanded    wide, 

The  blood-red   tint   within. 


The  Horse.  257 

His   haunches   moulded   splendidly, 

His   shoulders   large   and   strong — 
Breast   full,   arms   stout,   limbs   very  fine, 

But   firm   and   not   too   long, 
Knees   powerful,   but   clean   and   trim — 

Hoofs  high,   with   open   heels, 
Leg   action,   when   in   motion,  which 

The  lightning's   speed  reveals. 

/ 

What   grace  in   every   movement, 

When  his   proud  blood   doth   stir  ! 
How   he  leaps   from   the  solid   earth 

In   answer  to   the   spur ! 
He  is   my  equine  beau-ideal, 

While  bounding   o'er  the   course; 
But  find  him  where   I   may,   I   love 

The  great,  strong,  noble  horse. 


COME    TO     ME,     DARLING. 

WHEN  the  red  sun  in  the  clear  west  is  glow 
ing, 

And  the  soft  wind  from  the  sweet  south  is 
blowing, 

When   the   day's   trials   no   longer   are   near   me, 

Come  to  me,  darling,  to  soothe  and  to  cheer 
me! 

Thou  art  the  sun  that  dispels  my  sad  hours — 
Sweeter  thy  breath  than  the  odor  of  flowers — 
Only   thy   smile    can   my  sombre  life  brighten; 
Come   to   me,   darling,   my   sad  heart  to  lighten. 

You,    when    life's    bitterness    caused    me    to    lan 
guish, 
Rose   like   a   star  on    the   night   of  my   anguish; 


Come  to   me,   Darling.  259 

Nothing  in  life  like  thy  dear  presence   blesses ; 
Come  to  me,  darling,  and  meet  my  caresses. 

Come  joy  or  sorrow,  I'll  part   from   thee    never — 
Close   to   my  bosom   I'll  press   thee  forever — 
My    heart    is    love's     fountain     laid    open     before 

thee; 
Come   to   me,   darling,   and   let   it   flow   o'er   thee. 


THE     DRUNKARD. 

HOPELESSLY  wandering  through  the  cold  street, 
His   clothes   all  in   tatters,  no   shoes   on    his   feet ; 
With   countenance   bloated,   and   rum-frenzied  eye, 
Tired   of  living,   yet   fearing   to   die, 
How   the  crowd  jeers  as   he   shuffles   along, 
No   look   of  pity   or  love  in   the   throng  ; 
How   his   heart    burns   as   he   looks   on   the   scene, 
Thinking   of  what   is  and  what  might   have  been ! 

Once   he   was  youthful,   light-hearted,   and   gay — 

Life  to   him   then   seemed  a   long  summer's   day ; 

Now  he   is  penniless,   friendless,   and   old, 

And   shakes  like  a  reed   in   the   pitiless   cold. 

Once   he  had   energy,   freedom   from   fear, 

A   bright   beaming   eye,   and   an   intellect  clear; 


The  Drunkard.  261 

'Twas     seldom     that     sorrow     or     trouble     would 

come, 
Till  he   gave   himself  up   to   the   demon  of  rum. 

Drink    was    the    serpent    that     wrought    his    first 

pain, 

And   fixed   on   his   record   unsullied,   a   stain; 
Drink   that   he  hailed   as   a  friend   in   his   glee, 
But  oh !    what   a  fiend   did    that    friend    prove   to 

be! 

Mfe 

Slowly,   but   surely,  with  devilish   art, 

It    palsied     his    strong     frame    and    ate    out    his 

heart, 
And    placed    the    dark    brand  of   disgrace  on   his 

brow, 
And  made  him  that  wreck  of  a  man  he  is  now. 

O  ye  who  are  under  the  rum-demon's  spell, 
And    pour  down    your  throats  his  vile  poison  of 
hell! 


262  The  Drunkard 

Of  his   subtle   arts   I   beseech   you   beware, 

Ere   you   find   yourselves  wrecked  on   the   shoal  of 

despair. 
Ye    may    fight    him    awhile,    but    believe    me,    at 

length 
The     strongest     will     fall     and    succumb     to    his 

strength ; 

If  you  court  him  at  all,  you  will  struggle  in  vain 
To    break    the    strong    links    of    the    rum-demon's 

chain. 


A    CHRISTMAS    STORY. 

TWAS   winter,   and  the  frost  king's  breath 

Made   piercing  cold  the  air, 
And   the  rude  north   wind,  fierce  and  strong, 

Rushed  through   the   forest  bare, 
Till  e'en   the   gaunt   and  hungry   wolf 

Sought  shelter  in  his   lair. 

Near  the  highway,   and  just  within 

The   margin   of  a   wood, 
Lonely   and  drear,   and   frail  with   age, 

A  time-worn   hovel  stood ; 
And  there   a  wretched  couple  dwelt — 

Old  John   and   Rachel   Hood. 

The  keen  blast  whistled  through  the  chinks, 
And   shook  the  crazy   door, 


264  A    Christmas   Story. 

And  pierced  the  aged   pair  as  they 
The  embers   shivered   o'er, 

And  groaned  in   bitterness   of  soul, 
To   hear  the   tempest  roar. 

At  length   the   old  man  with   a  sigh 
Upraised   his   hoary  head, 

And  looking   at   the  wrinkled   dame, 

In   savage   humor   said, 
"  O  wife !    I   wish   with   all   my  soul 
That  you   and   I  were   dead. 

"This  is   a  pretty   Christmas   day, 
Old  dame,   for  you  and  I ; 

All   gloom,   and  poverty,   and  rags, 
And   abject   misery ! 

'Twere  better  we   were   in   our   graves 
And  sleeping   tranquilly. 

"The  pampered   rich   are   feasting  now 
'Mid  revelry   and   mirth, 


A    Christmas   Story.  265 

And  singing  pretty  madrigals 

About   the   Saviour's  Birth. 
Curse   'em !   I   wish  the    Holy   Babe 

Had  never  come   on   earth. 

"  How   has   His   coming  aided  us  ? 

What  favor  have   we   met  ? 
Our  only  son   a  wanderer, 

If  he  be  living  yet; 
While  we  are   old  and   poor,   and  scarce 
A  crust   of  bread  can   get. 

"  Religion   is  a  humbug,   dame ; 

Tis   only   for  the   few 
Who  roll  about  in  carriages, 

And  not  for  me  and   you. 
I'd  sell  myself  to   Satan, 

If  he'd  find  me   work  to  do! 

"Hark!     Listen,  Rachel!     What   was  that? 
I   heard  it  once  before! 


266  A    Christmas    Story. 

It   sounds   like   some   one   knocking 

For  admittance   at   the   door. 
I   heard   it   very   plainly   then, 

Above   the   tempest's   roar!" 

The   wrinkled   dame   rose   from   her  seat 

And   opened   wide   the   door, 
And  standing  there,   well    wrapped   in   furs, 

A   traveler   they   saw, 
Whose   face   was  bronzed,   and   who  had   lived 

Of  years  perhaps   two  score. 

"A   merry   Christmas,   friends!"    he   cried, 

As  he  surveyed   the   pair, 
And   then  he   wiped   the   frozen   sleet 

From   off  his  beard   and   hair, 
And  then  he  took  a  seat  upon 

A  rickety  old   chair. 

The  stranger  looked   the   cabin    o'er, 
And   then   continued  he, 


A    Christmas   Story.  267 

"But  you're   not  over  merry  here, 

To  judge  from   what   I   see ; 
There   are  few  bosoms   that   rejoice 
When  pinched  by  poverty. 

:'  But  cheer  up,   friends ;    I   have  the   means 

To   make  your  old  hearts  light, 
And   I   will  pay  you   well   for  food 

And  shelter  for  the  night. 
I'll  make  you   sing  to-morrow  morn 

If  you  but  use  me  right." 

And  then   the  stranger  merrily 

From  his   great  pocket  took 
A  purse  of  gold,   and  holding  it 

Aloft,   the  metal  shook; 
The  while  the  aged   couple  stared 

With   desp'rate,  greedy  look. 

Uprose   the   old  man   quickly   then, 
And   eagerly  he   said, 


268  A    Christmas   Story. 

"We've  little  food   to   offer  you 

And  but  a  sorry  bed; 
But   what   we  have  is   freely   yours, 
Though   we  should   go   unfed." 

"Enough,   enough!"    the   stranger  cried. 
"  If  you   give   all   your  store, 
You    do   the   very  best   you   can — 
The  best   could   do   no   more — 
So   set  before   me   what  you   have, 
And  compliments   give   o'er." 

The  meal  dispatched,  the  traveler  spoke: 

"Remember  what   I've  said, 
You'll  merry  be   to-morrow  morn, 

Unless   I'm   with   the   dead; 
And  so  a  kind  good-night,   old    friends; 

Come,  show  me  to  my  bed !" 

An  hour  passed  on — the  stranger  slept— 
And  to  the  aged  pair 


A    Christmas   Story.  269 

It   seemed   as   though   a  thousand  fiends 

Were   shrieking  in   the   air, 
As   they  with   greedy,   savage   eyes 

Did   at   each   other  stare. 

At  length  the   old  man   stealthily 

His   trembling   wife   drew   near, 
And  while  his   white   hair  rose   on   end, 

He   whispered  in  her   ear; 
And   then   a   groan   escaped  her, 

And  she  shook  with   guilty  fear. 

"Why  should  we   hesitate,"   he   said, 
"To   strike   the   fatal  blow? 
No   soul   on   earth   except   ourselves 

The  truth   will   ever  know ; 
I'll  do  it,  though  the  deed  should   plunge 

My  soul  in   endless   woe !" 

Then  crawling  to   the   stranger's   couch 
He  raised   on   high   a  knife, 


270  A    Christmas   Story. 

And   struck   the   blow   which   took   away 

The   hapless   victim's   life — 
Then   clutched  the   gold   and   bore   it   to 

His  half-demented   wife. 

***** 
The  wretched  pair  sat   cowering  there 

Till  rose   the  morning   sun ; 
They   could   not  sleep,   for   only   half 

Their  dreadful   task   was   done, 
And   they   dared   not   by    candle-light 

Their  victim   look   upon. 

But  now  when  rosy  morning 
Had  banished  storm   and  night, 

They  raised   the  floor  and  sought  the   corpse 
To   put  it   out   of  sight; 

But,   oh!    their  guilty   souls   were  filled 
With   horror  and  affright. 

With  shaking  limbs   they   raised   the   dead, 
When  suddenly  the  hair 


A    Chris f mas   Story.  271 

Fell   from   the   temples,   and   the   dame 

With   fixed   and   stony   glare 
Gazed   on   a  curious  mark,   and   screamed, 

"  Look   there,  old  man,   look   there !" 

Transfixed   they  stood  in   speechless   awe, 

And   motion   had   they   none, 
And   freezingly   through   all   their  veins 

Did   their  weak  life-tide   run; 
"  Great   God !"    shrieked   out   the   murderer, 
"  We've   killed   our  only   son !" 

****** 

Oh!    ye  who   scoff  at   God's   decrees 

In  unrepentant   mood, 
And  sacrilegiously   ignore 

A    Saviour's   precious   blood, 
Think   of  the   fate   which   fell   upon 

The   dame  and  old  John   Hood. 


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